Two Places at Once
by foolondahill17
Summary: A Sandbagger story. 1975: Neil Burnside is sent on a politically sensitive operation to post-war Vietnam, Bob Judd is on an unobtrusive security detail in East Africa, and Willie Caine is left alone in the hutch, caught between political double dealing and the realization that, should anything go wrong in either theater, saving one Sandbagger may mean giving the other up for lost.
1. The Usual Lies

Two Places at Once

* * *

Chapter One – The Usual Lies:

* * *

Willie's mother was fond of saying that, when in London, if it wasn't already raining than it was about to. Willie shrugged off his water flecked jacket and shook the moisture indifferently off it onto the ragged carpeting of the hutch before dangling it over the coatrack stood in the corner. True to his mother's wisdom and London's untiring fashion, it was raining, a slow, misty drizzle that had glossed his suit, jacket, and any revealed skin in a thin sheen of moisture and settled a keen, penetrating chill in his bones.

The hutch seemed to have absorbed the gloom of the city outside and was dark, damp, and cool. Willie set about turning on the various desk and floor lamps throughout the room while wondering where that requisition form for a space heater had ever disappeared to, en route to the winding labyrinth of finance department.

Willie was the first one in, an unusual occurrence as Neil almost always beat him to it. If Willie hadn't known any better he would have said Neil sometimes even slept there. Willie swung his satchel onto his desk and unclasped it, trying to ignore the eminent mound of files and folders that waited for him in the in-tray. He was convinced that it was of no coincidence that the word 'mundane' sounded so alike the word 'Monday.'

The door swung inward and Bob Judd wandered through with the same lackadaisical, unconcerned way he possessed that made observers wonder if he didn't just roam about idly until he happened to stumble upon the places he was supposed to be at the time he was supposed to be there.

Willie had come to realize this was nothing more than an illusion, however, and that Bob was actually smart as a tack, a jolly boy of twenty-five, perfectly aware of everything that went on in front of him, and in back. His manner still had a way of irritating people who didn't know him better, however, particularly his superiors. Willie knew it drove Neil nearly to the brink – which secretly all the more endeared Bob to Willie, because there were very few things that were quite so amusing as getting under Neil's skin.

"Have a good weekend?" said Bob carelessly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it next to Willie's on the rack.

"Good, thanks, yours?"

"Splendid," said Bob with a toothy grin. "Two days shacked up with lovely Clara. Nowhere to go because of the washout."

"The weather never would have stopped you," said Willie and Bob laughed in agreement. "Clara her name this week?"

"And last week," Bob protested. "I tell you, Willie. She's something."

"That's what you said about the last one."

"Nah, Clara's different." Bob perched himself on the edge of his desk, crossing his ankles. He had a slim, athletic body and a shock of sandy hair that Neil had warned to get trimmed the previous week. "Might even manage to make an honest man out of me."

"I doubt it," said Willie, edging around his desk and sinking into his chair. "You'll get into trouble someday, Bob. Mark my words."

"She's been positively vetted," said Bob indignantly, and put a hand up like he was swearing an oath over a Bible. "Strictly by the book. On my honor."

"Nothing honorable about it and you know it," said Willie, and decided he'd put off the inevitable long enough and hauled a pile of files out of the in-tray.

"You're just jealous because some people get all the luck," said Bob, smiling and hopping off his desk to go around and drop into his own chair. He made a leisurely grab for his own pile of folders, flipped one open in front of him, scanned the first page, and looked up, "Where's Neil run off to? His smiling face is the first thing I look forward to on a dreary Monday morning."

"Dunno," said Willie. "But if Neil's late you can bet it will be for something important. You don't suppose the world's ended and we just haven't noticed?"

"We would be the last to be told, true to form," Bob agreed with a grin. He shrugged in dismissal and turned back to his folder.

"Oh well, suppose he's just having a bit of a lie-in with Belinda," said Willie.

Bob grimaced, perhaps pondering the scenario, and eventually gave it up with another shrug. "To each his own, I suppose."

* * *

"Diane," said Neil Burnside with his grim Monday-morning look not reserved only for Monday mornings as he barged through the door in his typical fashion, hardly bothering to incline his head in greeting. "D-Ops rang from the sixth floor."

"Hullo, Neil," said Diane, not one to forget the niceties despite the early hour and smiled dryly from behind her typewriter. "My, my, but the cogs are churning early this morning. He'll be down in a minute, I'm sure."

"He went up to C's office, did he?" Neil demanded. He was losing his hair, Diane noticed, receding hairline further emphasizing his large, sloping forehead and face the shape of a tombstone.

Diane hummed an affirmative, turning back to her work. It was early, too early for the Service to be this fussed, or for Neil to be for that matter. Sometimes she wondered if he didn't spend his nights down in the hutch, waiting to pounce on signals as soon as they came in. This train of thought immediately made her think of him and Belinda, and whether or not they were entirely alright. She certainly hoped so. She liked Belinda Wellingham, sweet society girl as she was, seen by Diane only from afar. Diane liked Neil, too, after a fashion. Belinda could do him a world of good if he let her.

"Am I on my bike?" Neil snapped.

"I wouldn't know," Diane shrugged, tugged her completed sheet of paper out of the typewriter and placed it on the desk by her elbow, replacing it with another. "If you are then it must have been a signal straight to C. I haven't had anything remotely interesting pass through my desk."

Burnside paced the floor in long, loping strides. He came to a stop and faced her, arms held loosely at his sides. "Is it true C will be stepping down at the end of the month?"

Diane looked up, fingers perched over the keyboard, and lifted an eyebrow coyly. "Well, I wouldn't know about that either, would I?"

Burnside smiled in the maddening way he did, stuck somehow between ingratiating and patronizing. "Nevertheless I'm sure you do."

"Well, I shouldn't then," said Diane, feigning bad-temperedness. "And neither should you. Probably a load of secretarial gossip, anyway." She began tapping at the second sheet, leaving firm black letters on the white sheet of paper. Her _g_ was stuck. She'd have to remember to get that fixed before long.

"Let's say he is leaving, then," Burnside insisted. "Who do you think will get his seat?"

"The Deputy Chief, naturally, I suppose," Diane answered, permitting herself a small shrug.

"Even after all that business with that intelligence girl? What was her name? Wiseman? Certainly got her out of the way in a hurry. I wondered if Quincey wouldn't be following her."

Diane paused, fingers perched over the keyboard, and peered at Neil carefully, not for the first time wondering where he managed to get all his information from – and wondering also why he had pretended not to know Miss Wiseman's name. "Don't be ridiculous, Neil. Those rumors haven't got a spot of truth in them."

"Oh?" said Neil, studying her face in a way that made her feel like she was being interrogated. "What makes you so certain of that?"

"Well, for one thing Miss Wiseman wasn't the kind of girl who would fall in love with her boss, at least not a boss like Mr. Quincey. She's much too sober for something like that." Diane began again at her typing, not quite believing she was having this conversation with Neil Burnside of all people, steely-hearted head of the Special Section. Perhaps his infant marriage had, indeed, given him a greater awareness to things of the more romantic nature. "And, for another, I'm a woman. And a woman can tell things about another woman that a man couldn't. Anna Wiseman certainly didn't leave the building as a jilted lover, more like she'd just gotten away with robbing the second largest bank in Britain."

Neil didn't respond. He looked quite thoughtful and had resumed his pacing, long fingers threaded together behind his back.

Diane studied him covertly from behind her typewriter. "I'm surprised you didn't talk to her about it yourself, Neil," she said, and her attempt was rewarded with another raised eyebrow. "You knew Miss Wiseman quite well, didn't you?"

"Oh? Did I?" Neil was quite an accomplished liar. Diane would have been utterly convinced of his sincerity had she not already known the truth. She knew most of the girls in the typing pool, after all, and had heard in passing – from a fickle girl prone to romantic flights of fancy, attracted to rancid scandal like a vulture, and destined, no doubt, for early departure because of her loose tongue – that Miss Wiseman had phoned the hutch nearly two months ago in order to secure a private appointment with Neil, just before all those rumors concerning the Deputy Chief had sprouted up.

Diane wondered again, somewhat uneasily, what exactly Neil was playing at, but decided not to press the issue. "Just thought she was a special contact of yours from Tyler's department," she said with a shrug and forced a laugh. "For goodness sake's, Neil, you don't always have to try to make such a big mystery of things."

Neil smiled tautly and abruptly Diane knew that the topic of conversation had been closed. He pursed his lips in contemplation. "Who'll come in for the Deputy Chief, then?"

Diane frowned thoughtfully, "There's been noises about the Station head in Honk Kong."

"Least we'll be getting an intelligence man, then," said Neil. "Not a total incompetent like some of these Whitehall types."

"Careful, Neil," said Diane, "that's where you get your paycheck, after all."

"With the amount they pay us I don't think I'd even miss it if it was gone."

It was then that the door to the hallway swung open and Director of Operations Richard Hardwick, gray, grizzled, squat, and square, tramped across the threshold. "Morning Diane," he said gruffly. "Burnside, good to see you."

"Sir," said Neil cordially, nodding his head. He stood back to let Hardwick pass and lead the way into his office.

"Ring me if you get a call from Grosvenor Square, Diane," said Hardwick before shutting the door. "Otherwise hold my calls. Won't be a minute."

"Yes, sir," said Diane and the door to his office clicked shut, hiding him and Neil from her view.

* * *

"Where've you been then?" Willie demanded as soon as the hutch door swung open and Neil Burnside's reedy form made an appearance.

"We'd been about to ring the bobbies," said Bob without looking up from his work and earning himself not a glance of the slightest interest from Neil.

"Or MI5," said Willie, grinning to let Neil know they were only jest because sometimes Neil took things much too gravely. "In case you were defecting."

"I've been with D-Ops," said Neil.

"What, all this time?" said Willie and cast a despairing glance to Bob. "And here we thought we'd beat you to the grindstone for once."

Neil smiled faintly and walked over to his own desk while Willie and Bob looked on. He didn't take a seat, but patiently shuffled through the pile of papers that lay atop his desk.

"Well?" said Bob finally. "What did the boss want?"

"I'm on my bike," said Neil without turning, snatching hold of the folder he'd apparently been looking for.

"Where to?" said Willie, all business now, eyebrows furrowed.

"Saigon," Neil answered – offering no extraneous information, typical Neil, making one milk it out a single iota at a time.

"In Vietnam?" said Bob.

"Unless you know of any other Saigon," Neil answered.

"What are you off to do?" said Willie.

Willie could read the hesitation in Neil's eyes before he cautiously answered: "I've been instructed that it's need to know. I'm off to Missions Planning now to get my brief."

"Need to know?" Bob demanded indignantly and both Neil and Willie ignored him.

"Vietnam," said Willie, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Thought that was still American territory. What's changed to make SIS interested?"

"After last April the American's haven't got a leg left to stand on in Vietnam," said Neil.

"Then what is this, some kind of SIS stand in for CIA?" Bob said.

Neil cocked an eyebrow, and Willie knew Bob had hit the mark, or at least glanced a near miss. "And if it was, would it really be so unusual? The CIA have certainly never hesitated to lend a hand if we lacked personnel."

"Still," said Willie. "I didn't think C was fond of lending his men do the American's dirty work. Especially in Saigon. Prime Minister isn't anxious to draw anyone's eyes to us in that mess, is he? We've managed to avoid it thus far."

"Who says I'm off to do the American's dirty work?" said Neil.

Bob sighed in exasperation, "Would have thought if they could trust one Sandbagger with it they could trust the rest of us. What if something goes wrong and Willie or I have to go in for a bust out?"

"You'll be briefed in due course should C think is necessary," Neil answered coolly. Neil had very little patience, Willie knew, when it came to Bob's more impetuous side.

"And in the meantime let's hope nothing goes wrong," Willie added.

Neil acknowledged Willie with a nod of his head. "Right, well. I'm off to Mission Planning. I'll be up again before I leave. Got a fourteen-hundred flight out of Heathrow."

"Right," said Willie, and watched Neil about-face out of the hutch, folder he'd grabbed from his desk held firmly under his arm. Willie had been unable to snag a look at the title.

* * *

"Well, well, so much for a nice, uneventful Monday," said Bob, casually loping by Willie's side, hands in the pockets of his slacks, as they made their way to Hardwick's office. The call from the fifth floor had interrupted their lunch, eaten at their desks as per usual while sorting through station signals and brushing crumbs off manila folders – extra third of the work having handed in their laps while Neil continued to plug away at whatever he was doing in Mission Planning.

"It does seem to come all at once, doesn't it?" said Willie. They entered the lift together and departed on the fifth floor, walking abreast down the hallway to the Operations Director's office.

"Afternoon, Diane," said Bob with a charming grin, pushing the door open with the heel of his hand.

"Hullo you two," said Diane, pausing from her work to share a smile. "You can go right in."

"Don't you ever get a lunchbreak?" said Willie, sweeping passed her desk behind Bob.

"I might ask you the same question."

"SIS will soon have a revolt on their hands if they're not careful," Willie replied, and stepped into Hardwick's office.

"Bread for all, and roses, too!" Bob tossed over his shoulder, already standing in front of Hardwick's desk.

Willie shut the door behind him, turned to face Hardwick, and immediately sobered having discovered the Director of Operations was not smiling.

"Take a seat, will you?" Hardwick flicked his wrist at the two of them. It was still raining outside, soft drizzle having increased to a heavy downpour. The rain beat a tattoo on the windows behind the dirty curtains.

"Sir," said Bob, and fell into one of the chairs sitting in front of the desk. Willie hooked another chair with his ankle and pulled it over to sit down.

"I suppose you've seen the East Africa signal?"

"Yes, sir," said Willie.

"I'd like to draw your attention specifically to Dubad Lutara, president of the Somali Democratic Republic."

"Ah yes," said Willie, nodding his head.

"Good old Lutara," said Bob.

"What can you tell me about him?" said Hardwick, which Willie knew was an endeavor for assessment rather than a real need for information.

It was Bob who answered, who had a head for details: "Fifty-six-years-old. Half a dozen official murders to his name, nearly as many wives, and twice as many enemies. As a young man he fought for Fascist Italy during the Second World War where he reached the rank of second lieutenant. Took command of Somalia four years ago after the assassination of his predecessor via a military coup. Supposed to be fond of placing long, chummy phone calls between Villa Somalia and the Kremlin."

"Right." Hardwick nodded in confirmation. Hardwick was a stern man, not given to levity, nor liable to be intimidated, with a square head topped with neatly trimmed gray hair, and who kept his agents at an arms' length. A fair man and a good D-Ops, he held Willie's honest respect and, what was more, Neil's. "Then you think he's aligned himself with the Soviets?"

"Yes, sir," Bob answered again. "Only a matter of time before they sign the marriage license."

"Caine?"

"I agree, sir," said Willie. "Most of Somalia's economic subsidies over the past three years have come from the Soviet Union. Not to mention humanitarian aid, transport of provisions and refugees – and it isn't as though the Soviet Union is accustomed to helping anyone if there isn't something they can get out of it in turn."

Hardwick nodded, looked down at the papers spilled across his desk, and looked back up, staring specifically at Bob, who – until then slouching unconcernedly in his seat – straightened his shoulders and picked up his chin.

"Until 1960, Somalia was under the care and supervision of Great Britain and, to a lesser extent, Italy," Hardwick said, donning his 'Professor's cap' as Willie liked to call it, a persona he used when explaining background on an operation akin to opening a history lesson at university. "They were released into independence and were doing quite well until Lutara's military takeover in '71. Lutara's reign hasn't exactly encouraged the development of his country, economically, socially, or politically, and neither has he wanted to admit how bad a hand he holds. Until now the Soviet Union have been leading the response to Lutara's crisis. As you can well understand, the United Kingdom isn't too fond of this current arrangement. We've an envoy from the Foreign Office heading out to meet with Lutara. They leave tomorrow morning on a ten o'clock flight."

"During which Britain will try to buy their way back into Somalia's good graces?" Willie guessed.

"The Foreign Office did not, of course, use such bald terms," Hardwick answered.

"What's the interest in Somalia, anyway?" said Bob. "Haven't much trade value to speak of. What does the UK care if the Soviets snatch them up? For that matter, why do the Soviets even want them?"

Hardwick frowned in disapproval at Bob's brazenness, perhaps interpreted as unintentional disloyalty by a less understanding individual, but nonetheless answered, "Somalia has a major natural reserve of uranium, one of the largest deposits in the world, in fact. Not to mention they've close ties with Saudi Arabia. Russia has been vying for the Saudi's attention since Ford and Khalid shook hands. Perhaps the Russians hope to approach Khalid roundabout through Lutara."

Bob shrugged carelessly, "Lutara doesn't like Westerners, though, does he? Especially the British. Spent some time in a UK POW camp during the war if I'm not mistaken. Granted amnesty, of course, but I suppose that might still rankle a bit."

"Well, the Foreign Office is hoping he might put some of his personal feelings aside for the good of his country."

Bob shrugged, "Doesn't seem likely. From what I've read he doesn't seem to be the most understanding of blokes."

"Supposed to be a bit erratic, too, isn't he?" Willie interjected. "Something of a nutter."

"That certainly does seem to be the media's image of him," Hardwick agreed. "But then there's also conjecture that that's exactly how Lutara wants the media to see him."

Willie placed a question that had been nagging him for some time; history, after all, had never been his favorite subject at school: "Right, and how does the Special Section figure into any of this?"

Hardwick glanced at Willie only briefly before again turning his eyes on Bob. He cleared his throat. "This Foreign Office delegation is headed by Deputy Under-Secretary Sir Roderick Hives. He's well aware of Lutara's unfriendly feelings toward the West and so harbors some ambivalent feelings of his own. Not to mention the country isn't exactly in a state of total civil accord at the moment. Half of Lutara's own cabinet would like to see him out of office, and it's a feeling shared by the majority of his poor and hungry public."

"So Hives is twitched and wants a bit of comfort," said Willie.

"Hives has asked for SIS to act as escort to the entire envoy generally and to himself specifically," said Hardwick.

"Sir," Bob started, a note of objection in his voice. "Sandbaggers aren't supposed to be sent on babysitting jobs like this. Can't the station handle it?"

"You needn't remind me, Judd, what Sandbaggers are and aren't supposed to do," said Hardwick gruffly. "I'm well aware this isn't the typical Special Section job."

"But Hives asked for a Sandbagger specifically," Willie finished for him. No wonder the man was so sullen. Pressure from above was always liable to rub Hardwick the wrong way. Hardwick liked to run his directorate as he saw fit, not at the will and whim of some ignorant, interfering politician.

"Yes," Hardwick admitted with a sigh. "And Hives has SIS friends in high places. We are at his beck and call. We won't send both of you, of course. I wasn't going to give into that no matter who Hives called. So I'm giving the job to you, Judd."

For a moment it looked like Bob was going to argue. His mouth dropped open but Willie shot him a warning glance. Bob's lips snapped back together. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly.

"Missions planning will be waiting for you."

"Yes, sir," said Bob again, and sighed as he pushed himself out of the chair. "I expect I'll cross paths with Neil on his way up."

Willie didn't get out of his chair yet. "What did you want me for, sir?"

Hardwick waited until Bob had left the office and shut the door behind him before looking at Willie squarely for the first time since he had come in. "Ah yes, Caine. With both Burnside and Judd away you'll have to hold down the fort."

"Yes, sir," said Willie, and hesitated, unsure whether or not he should voice his concerns. Neil had come out of the marines, Willie out of the RAF, their past head of section from and back again to a foreign station. Bob was the first directly out of the nursery the Special Section had picked up in nearly a decade – a trial run, of sorts, and one Willie sincerely hoped worked out. Bob had been with the Section now for nearly six months. He was still relatively inexperienced, a bit cocky – Willie would even admit _insolent_ , perhaps, would be the better word – and ultimately very young.

"Maybe it would be better to send me, sir, to Somalia."

Hardwick waved Willie's suggestion aside. "Bob will be able to handle himself perfectly well on a security detail like this one, Caine. Besides, I'd like you standing by for any call for assistance in Saigon."

"Of course," said Willie. "What exactly is Sandbagger One up to in Vietnam, sir?"

Hardwick sighed. "I've been given strict instructions from C that anyone but to whom it would be vital shouldn't know."

"It's some kind of CIA adopted job, isn't it?" said Willie.

Hardwick's brow furrowed. "Burnside tell you that?"

"No, sir. It's just that Vietnam has been a primarily run CIA theater for the past decade and I didn't think the UK was too eager to get their hands on it."

"Well," said Hardwick. "You're right about that. Vietnam's a mess. The Prime Minister wants no part of it. And I may as well confirm that Burnside is, indeed, working as a favor to the CIA."

Willie nodded his understanding. "Shouldn't I better read the brief, then, in case I need to step in?"

"All in due time, Caine. And if all goes right than that time will never come. But I wanted to let you know, just in case."

"Don't make any plans for a last minute holiday?" Willie smiled loosely.

Hardwick nodded, "Unless you're prepared to break them."

"Or that holiday happens to bring me near Saigon."

"Right."

"Alright then, sir," said Willie, and stood, sensing he was dismissed. "I'd better get a head start on some paperwork, hadn't I? I'll be outnumbered tenfold now without Neil and Bob."

Hardwick cracked a rare smile. "Best of luck, Caine."

* * *

The hutch was predictable empty when Willie returned. His coat had dried but left gray puddles of soggy carpet beneath it from where the rain had dripped off. He pulled out the chair behind his desk, quizzically addressed his half-eaten sandwich from his interrupted lunch, and decided he wasn't very hungry.

The door opened and he looked up to see Neil come stomping in, a quality of suppressed haste hanging off his limbs. The hunt was up and Neil had caught the scent; Willie knew this pre-operation Burnside well, the slight impatience that hung off his figure, a curbed fervor to get out on the trail.

"Willie," said Neil with a nod. "Talked to Bob. Whitehall's bagged him for a babysitting job, have they?"

"Bob was less than thrilled."

"Can't fault him for that," said Neil, and muttered something under his breath in which Willie caught the words "interfering" and "bloody bureaucrats", evidently directed at Downing Street. He was shuffling some things around on his desk again, replacing the folder he'd taken down to Missions Planning.

"Bit of light reading for the trip?" said Willie offhandedly.

The corner of Neil's lip twitched upward in the nearest thing to a smile he would permit himself. "Something like that. Background on the Phoenix Program."

"Ah," said Willie, nodding slowly. "F-6 now, though, isn't it?"

Neil didn't answer. He was riffling through the drawers of his desk, probably looking for a pack of cigarettes.

"Why'd C pick you?" said Willie. There wasn't any competition among the Sandbaggers, no jockeying for promotion or anything that might otherwise muddle the success of their missions, and both Willie and Neil knew it. Neil wouldn't take Willie's inquiries for anything more than their face value: frank curiosity, concern to make sure the Service didn't have their Tab-A anywhere else then its proper slot.

Neil shrugged. "I'm Sandbagger One. C thought I was the most suited for the operation. Besides, you've just gotten back from Helsinki."

"Yes, but I know Vietnam," said Willie. "At least in that I've been there before."

"And I'm sure it was duly noted by C," Neil replied.

"How are you getting over the boarder?" Willie asked.

"Over from the Ukraine," said Neil. "Posing as a Soviet industrialist."

"Hope you've brushed up on your Russian," said Willie, looking up at Neil's towering, gangly form standing over his desk. "Have you drawn a weapon?"

"Not until I reach Saigon."

Willie digested this bit of information slowly, lips pressed firmly together, nodding his head. "Well watch your back over there, Neil, right?"

"Right, Willie." Neil turned on his heel.

"Anything specific you want me to tell Belinda?" Willie called to Neil's retreating figure.

"The usual lies," Neil replied with a sigh, whether resigned or irritated Willie couldn't tell.


	2. Slightly More Complicated

Chapter Two – Slightly More Complicated:

* * *

Tuesday passed in a haze of London mist and dreary paper pushing. Neil had arrived in Saigon that morning at a little after oh-two-hundred, and Bob departed for Mogadishu cloaked within the British delegation at ten o'clock and arrived at his destination at nineteen-hundred, soon after which Willie left the office for the night. He had dinner with a girl from finance who declined his offer for drinks at his flat. He wondered how Bob managed so effortlessly and decided it must have something to do with the James Bond airs he was always putting on and Neil always complaining about.

Wednesday morning dawned with a signal from Bob "balmy 102 degrees – nothing to report – time of my life – wish you were here – PS boss neglected to mention there weren't any girls at the embassy" and a dire warning from Hardwick that, upon his return, Judd would get a stern reprimand on spending station time and money on flippant encrypted signals. Predictably there was no word from Neil who was practicing communications silence unless there was an emergency.

It was after lunch when Willie was rung by Diane and he traipsed up to the Operation Director's office, taking the stairs because he was feeling restless from so much time sitting at his desk. Hardwick's message was both brief and infuriatingly opaque.

"Not doing anything later tonight, are you, Caine?"

"No, sir. Why?"

"I'd like you on hand, if at all possible," said Hardwick. Hardwick had eyes as sharp and calculating as a hawk's. They seemed to take in everything at once: Willie's tie, loosened around his neck, the door hanging slightly ajar because Willie hadn't pushed it closed hard enough, the clock mounted on the wall above the door. "I'm going to tell you something, Caine, something C doesn't want widely known."

"Sir?" Hardwick had not offered Willie a seat so Willie stayed standing.

"In thirteen hours," Hardwick began, "oh-two-hundred our time and oh-nine-hundred Burnside's, Burnside will carry out a political assassination."

Willie's mouth opened prematurely as several questions volleyed all at once for a chance at making an appearance. _Political assassination_ , the words rankled unpleasantly in Willie's head. No wonder Hardwick hadn't wanted Willie to go. It wasn't as if he could send anyone but their best on a job like that. "Who, sir?"

"Never mind that yet, Caine," said Hardwick. "I just wanted to let you know that it was happening tonight. If anything goes wrong than we'll know by morning."

"Right, sir," Willie stood. He felt slightly ill. Two o'clock the next morning seemed a very long way away. He wondered what Neil was doing – scouting the area, testing the gun, cool and unconcerned waiting it out in his hotel room. "It's certainly a dangerous shot to take, sir, in broad daylight like he'll be. What's his extraction plan if something does goes wrong?"

"We've a bolt-hole fixed for him, of course. A route planned out."

"And if that's not enough?" Willie pressed. He watched Hardwick's small gray eyes, aware that the older man was not quite meeting Willie's gaze.

"I'm afraid we'll have to take each obstacle as it comes, Caine. C has refused any further action; the avoidance of an international incident is of the upmost importance. We simply cannot allow the North Vietnamese, or their Chinese counterparts, to discover an SIS operation on their soil. Our argument, as you remember, has never officially been with North Vietnam, and there is certainly no reason to declare it now that the bloody conflict is finally over."

Willie shook his head. "Then why send Neil in the first place, sir? What's the point in running the risk of him getting caught for a cause that SIS isn't willing to support?"

"The special relationship, Caine," said Hardwick simply. "The CIA have asked very little of us in the past and, in turn, supplied us with plenty. After that business in Bonn last year, especially, our continued relationship is vital for the survival of this service. C thought this was the least we could do."

Willie wondered why Hardwick was telling him all this now, especially when he implied that C had said there was to be no further action from SIS should Neil, indeed, get into any trouble. Willie, however, didn't bother asking. He had clearly been dismissed. Hardwick's tense posture gave all indication that he wanted to get back to work. "Thank you for letting me know, sir."

"Of course, Caine," said Hardwick. "And for God's sake don't let C know I've told you."

"I won't sir."

"And, listen, don't fret about Burnside. He's a bloody good agent. He'll pull it off without any trouble."

Hardwick reassuring was never a sight Willie liked to see; it usually meant that things were much worse than they appeared.

"Right, sir," said Willie, nodding tautly, and let himself out of the office.

* * *

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" said Willie, walking into the Operation Director's outer office, expecting to see it dark and deserted but instead finding the lights still glaring and Diane sitting back at her desk nursing a mug of coffee.

She looked up as though Willie had startled her out of a daze but smiled her charming secretarial smile nonetheless. "I thought you'd gone home."

"Nah," said Willie. "Grabbed a bite to eat, watched a spot of television, decided I wasn't tired and might as well come back to the office to get some work done."

"Right," said Diane, smiling with gentle disbelief. She had a smile for every occasion, one that could convey a multitude of different expressions without seemingly altering a bit and never slipping from her lips.

"Alright, so what's your story?" Willie retorted and Diane's grin took on the appearance of abashed resignation.

"There just didn't seem to be much point waiting around at home when it could be just as well done here," said Diane. Willie wondered how much Diane knew about Neil's operation, certainly no more than Willie himself knew but, then again, she always had her ways of finding things out.

"Boss in?"

Diane shrugged rather bleakly, "Who knows? One minute he's up here, the next camped out in the Ops-Room. The last I heard he was off to sixth floor to have a chat with the Deputy Chief."

"Quincey here, too, is he?" said Willie. "What are we running, some kind of bloody night club?"

"Come, read to me some poem, some simple and heartfelt lay, that shall soothe this restless feeling, and banish the thoughts of the day," said Diane and took a sip of her coffee.

"What?" said Willie, assuming the exhaustion of the day had begun to touch her in the head.

"Longfellow?" Diane supplied as if it was supposed to mean something to Willie.

"Oh," Willie replied. "Well, maybe I should go down to the Ops-Room, see if there's anything stirring."

"Doubt it," said Diane. "The whole building seems to be waiting for a bomb to go off."

Willie shrugged, not bothering to remark upon the aptness – or lack thereof – of her metaphor.

"By the way," said Diane, "how'd you get on with Priscilla?"

Priscilla was the girl from finance Willie had taken for Italian on Tuesday evening. Felt like a bloody lifetime ago by now. Time was a curious commodity; life in the Special Section warped and contorted it at the merest whim. Sometimes time gushed forward like the outpouring of water from a busted dam, other times it trickled by tortuously, one single grain after another through the hourglass, still others it froze altogether. Willie had spent weeks down in the hutch with every damned signal and mission brief marking its own day of a long and toiling year. He'd been on missions where time became so scarce that every thought and action had to be completed without wasting a second of it. He had watched bullets slow to a crawl, seen tailed suspects jump whole blocks ahead with no time to allow for transit. Time was of its own mind and soul in the Special Section and Willie had long ago given up trying to find any logic in its finicky impulses.

"Hmm," he shrugged in a noncommittal manner when he remembered that Diane had asked him a question. "She was alright."

Diane laughed. "You're far too particular, Willie. Priscilla's a sweet girl."

"Trust me," said Willie. "If I were really that particular, I wouldn't have taken her out at all."

Diane shook her head, smiling now in cheerfully tolerant disapproval.

The telephone rang, the red interior line, and Willie immediately perked up his ears as Diane reached over to answer it, straining to hear what was being said on the other end of the line.

"No, he's with the Deputy Chief…." Diane's eyebrows drew together in concern, a small wrinkle forming on the bridge of her nose. Diane wasn't a too bad looking woman, herself, now that Willie thought about it – a bit of an improvement from Priscilla, at least. "Sandbagger Two is with me now…. Yes, I'll send him right down. I'll ring D-Ops for you…. Not a problem. Thanks." Diane didn't bother hanging the phone back on the cradle before dialing the sixth floor for Hardwick. "Ops-Room, Willie," she said, cupping the receiver with a hand.

"Right," said Willie, and turned on his heel to immediately make his way to the lift.

* * *

He arrived to see the Ops-Room floor quite a bit busier than expected at quarter after midnight. No doubt extra personnel had stayed on for Neil's expected hit. Missions planning personnel, desk officers, and night secretaries were scurrying across the room. The rhythm of tramping feet, chattering voices, and ringing telephones – some unanswered in the shuffle of too many people with too much to do – split the air in a confusing and slightly alarming muddle. Sam Lawson was the chief desk officer of the night and looked up as Willie came in.

"Signal from Mogadishu, Willie," said Sam.

It took Willie a moment to realize what Sam had said, mind on Neil in Saigon and nowhere near East Africa with Bob and Lutara. By the time Willie had remembered that Mogadishu was the capital of Somalia, Sam had continued, "A report of a civilian led movement against Lutara's government. No word yet on how the military has responded."

"Jesus," said Willie, not quite knowing how to respond, feeling confused and breathless with hundreds of questions spinning through his head and making a mess of everything else.

The door opened behind him and Hardwick bustled in, breathing hard as though he had taken the stairs instead of the lift. "What's happened?"

Sam quickly related the information he had already told Willie, after which Hardwick swore loudly and crudely. "What about our people? Any word from the embassy?"

"Sandbagger Three hasn't made contact yet, sir," Sam answered.

"Somalia is only three hours ahead of us, sir," said Willie. "Bob was probably startled out of bed." After Willie said it he realized that that particular turn of phrase, where Bob was concerned, had some rather unfortunate implications and Hardwick addressed Willie with raised eyebrows as if to say _bloody well better not have been_.

Bruce Copeland, another duty-ops officer, addressed Hardwick after hanging up the phone he'd been intently speaking into. "Confirmed military involvement, sir. A civilian militia stormed Villa Somalia from the outside while the military seized it from within."

"Lutara's in captivity then?" said Hardwick, questions coming in the rapid fire of a machine gun. Willie had been at the other end of Hardwick's grillings many times before and permitted himself to feel a small trace of pity for Bruce.

"So say our preliminary reports, sir."

"How much bloodshed?"

"None reported yet, sir."

"How were the civilians armed?"

Bruce shrugged. "Presumably by the military, sir."

"Don't presume anything, Copeland," Hardwick snapped. "I don't need your bloody presumptions. I need facts, cold and hard."

"Yes, sir."

A telephone rang near at hand and was answered by Sam.

"The insurgents are calling themselves the Somali National Front, sir," Bruce added.

Sam set the telephone back down with a click and interrupted, "Sixth floor, sir. C will be in shortly. Calling an emergency meeting before the Prime Minister is informed."

"Damn the Prime Minister," said Hardwick under his breath, but yielded to the order from the floors above with a heavy sigh, moving back toward the door. He turned to Willie, "Keep an eye on things down here, Caine. Ring me if you hear anything from Sandbagger Three, even if it's just another of his bloody weather reports."

* * *

Willie felt a bit lost at sea in the Ops-Room, among all the others who seemed to know exactly what they were doing, which questions to ask, and whom to speak with on the telephone. The clock on the wall clicked ever onward, now with alarming haste, and Willie watched carefully for the swiftly approaching oh-two-hundred, the time of Neil's hit. He wondered if he was the only one, in the midst of the unexpected chaos, who had bothered to remember.

Reports, often times conflicting or confused, came tumbling in from Mogadishu: no reported deaths, belay that, twenty-one injured, five dead. Lutara was in military custody. Lutara was dead. Lutara had not, in fact, even been at Villa Somalia at the time of the attack and was alive, well, and at liberty.

Someone had made coffee and Willie found himself seated at Sam's desk with an untouched mug in front of him, steam curling in front of his face.

"The British Embassy, as of now, appears to be unscathed," said Sam. "The so called Somali National Front's only argument appears to be with Lutara."

"Why they had to strike now, I don't know," said Willie with a sigh, digging his knuckles into his closed eyes. "I don't suppose they could have waited another day or two until we got our people out."

"Still no word from Bob?"

"None," said Willie shortly, which was not like Bob at all, who, when in the field, practiced a communications frenzy that hinged on an obsession. Neil was fond of making snide remarks about Judd's security blanket – Willie was inclined to believe Bob just got lonely. Willie didn't say anything about it now to Sam, however, as there was no need to raise a premature red flag.

"Has Lutara countered the attack?" said Willie.

"Hasn't got much left to counter it with, has he?" said Sam.

"Well," said Willie and glanced at the clock – less than a half-an-hour until Neil's run – "If Lutara is forced out of power than at least we've already got an envoy there to start developing foreign relations with the new regime straight away."

Sam smiled halfheartedly. Willie stood to stretch out his back, looking back up at the clock. Twenty-eight minutes and counting. Sam followed Willie's eyes and said, "Nearly forgot about Sandbagger One."

"Well, I'm sure Hardwick hasn't. He's not one to leave any of his agents unattended to."

It was then that, on the other end of the room, Bruce Copeland received a call, spoke tersely into the receiver for nearly a minute before hanging up the phone, and announced to his waiting audience that the Soviets had moved their troops into Somalia for the express use and aid of the disadvantaged President Lutara.

"Damn," said Sam, simply and softly as though he had just recalled that he had forgotten his bagged lunch in his flat.

The ensuing turmoil was abrupt and disordered enough to ensure that two o'clock slipped passed unattended by Willie or anyone else in the Ops-Room. Willie received a call from the fifth floor – from Hardwick, himself, sounding grave, and not Diane – at nearly half-passed. Willie paused long enough to curse, excuse himself from Sam, hope fleetingly that Neil was alright, and then raced from the room in the direction of the lift at the end of the hall.

Diane looked a disheveled mess, with both hair and makeup in need of redoing, but she still greeted Willie with a "coffee will be just a second" accompanied by a smile, this time laced with a touch of pained sympathy.

"Sir?" said Willie, forgetting to knock as he came through the door to Hardwick's office.

Hardwick didn't seem to mind. He was frowing, seated calmly at his desk like a stocky and scowling gargoyle, and waved his hand to a chair. "Take a seat, Caine."

Willie did so without speaking, trying to soothe his fluttering stomach. Hardwick possessed the grizzled calm of a man who had seen and done it all before, which, in usual circumstances, pervaded subconsciously into his surroundings and companions. This night, however, Hardwick's internal quiet evaded Willie entirely.

"No word yet from Sandbagger Three?" Hardwick began. Something in his tone implied that Bob Judd was not, in fact, what he'd called Willie in to speak about, but was merely the softer beginning for what he was leading up to.

"Correct, sir," Willie answered, and continued with the concern that had been gnawing at his stomach for some time now. "It isn't like Bob, sir."

"You're right, Caine, it isn't," said Hardwick, almost dismissively. They were interrupted briefly by Diane, bearing two cups of coffee which she placed on the desk. Hardwick waited until she had left before continuing. "But it's possible that Judd knows more about the situation than we do. It could be that the Soviets are monitoring the embassy's calls and he doesn't wish to blow his cover."

"Yes, sir," said Willie, not mollified in the least but controlled enough not to let it show.

"Anyway I'm afraid we have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Sir?" Willie's stomach tumbled. He could hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

"I'd like you to take a look at this signal," said Hardwick, leaning across his desk with a sheet of paper in his fist, "and then forget you've ever seen it."

Willie took hold of the offered sheet of paper, read its contents swiftly, noted the CIA watermark, read it a second time slower, and looked back up at Hardwick. Hardwick held out his hand for the paper and Willie passed it back to him without a word.

"Phạm An Bào, a former general in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, was killed in Saigon with a rifle shot through the head not forty-five minutes ago. He was slated to be shipped out to the Hoa Lo reeducation camp later today."

Willie allowed Hardwick's voice to dissolve into his mind, picking apart each word carefully, choosing which of his questions he should address first. "ARVN, sir?"

"Yes, Caine."

"I don't understand. You're saying Phạm was with the South?"

"Yes, well, we certainly thought so, didn't we?" said Hardwick grimly. "The truth of the matter, however, is that Phạm was a northern agent."

"What's he doing heading to a Communist prison camp, then?"

"Our nearest guess is that the new government is anxious to keep his true identity secret. They're desperate to give the country a unified appearance and no doubt hope that a vote of confidence from Phạm, a former soldier of the ARVN, will encourage the rest of their imprisoned forces to cooperate."

"Right, sir," said Willie. He tightened his hands into fists and lay them in his lap. He didn't touch the cup of coffee Diane had brought in; adrenaline had him perfectly awake and aware even for the late hour. He wanted to ask about Neil but restrained himself. Phạm was dead; surely that meant Neil's mission had been carried out without any hitch. Even so, it would be better to hear the word directly from Hardwick's lips.

"Why did the CIA want him dead?"

"That's slightly more complicated I'm afraid, Caine."

"It always is, sir."

Hardwick launched into an explanation, thick fingers folded in front of him on the desk, "The Hanoi government has claimed that each of their political and military prisoners will be released in three years' time. They've guaranteed the safety of the prisoners, including that there will be no political executions, even in response to war crimes."

"We know better than that," said Willie.

"I agree," said Hardwick. "And so does the United States. In fact the CIA are almost counting on the fact that the North Vietnam will go back on their word. They hope it will encourage further dissidence in the South and continued distrust toward the communists in the rest of the Western world. However, if the North Vietnamese do, in fact, keep to their word then the CIA will have lost their bargaining chip."

"And they've decided to stage Phạm's assassination to make it look like it occurred at the hands of the North?" Willie concluded. Something thick and cold landed heavily in his stomach. He was struck with the sudden image of Neil crouching on some rooftop sweating beneath the hot Vietnamese sun, waiting for Phạm to shuffle out of his holding cell into the open so he could get a clear shot. He wondered if there had been much blood, or if one could see blood at all from sniping distance.

"Right," said Hardwick. "We're counting on the fact that the North shan't want to announce that Phạm is their agent and risk stirring up any suspicions toward any other men they might have in a similar position."

"They'll know that it must have been an outsider that killed him, though, sir. They'll assume his cover was blown – no reason to think the rest of their agents are still secure."

"Yes, well," Hardwick cleared his throat, "That's just a chance we'll have to take."

"Neil will have to take," Willie corrected him.

Hardwick's expression was solemn. Willie felt a horrible exhaustion descend on him; for a moment it was almost as if he knew what was going to be said. "I should tell you, Caine, that Sandbagger One has missed his rendezvous and prescribed check-in procedure after the hit."

Willie resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. He breathed slowly, acutely aware of Hardwick's piercing eyes on his face, gauging his reaction. Absurdly, Willie wondered if this was some kind of perverted test Hardwick had cooked up to assess his agents' responses to stress.

"Perhaps he had to abandon the operation, sir," Willie suggested weakly.

"Phạm was certainly killed by someone. If not Burnside than I don't know who," Hardwick said grimly.

Willie attempted to rev his brain up to running speed, searching to no avail for the operational adrenaline that would be kicking in right about now had this been a live theater and Willie's own life at stake. "What was the time of the rendezvous, sir?"

"Nine-fifteen Burnside's time, two-fifteen ours," Hardwick answered.

Willie craned his neck to look at the clock above the office door even though he already knew what it read. "He's overstepped that by only thirty-five minutes than, sir."

"It was a very straightforward retreat," said Hardwick. "Outside to a planted bicycle, down a side street, up an alley to a waiting car and driver who would bring him directly to the airport – supposed to be out of the country before they could even affirm Phạm was DOA."

Willie was visited by the sudden and somehow bizarre image of Neil Burnside riding a bicycle down a crowded Vietnam street. "Perhaps he was twitched, sir," Willie proposed. "Thought he'd been seen, went a round-about way to the car or even abandoned the route altogether." Perhaps the bicycle got a flat tire.

"There's always that possibility, yes."

"He could make contact in another few minutes, an hour at most. Otherwise he'll be at the bolt-hole, won't he?"

"Perhaps," said Hardwick, not blinking as he continued to study Willie's face. Willie was struck by another wild thought, this time the uneasy inclination that Hardwick was seeking reassurance from Willie just as much as Willie was from him.

"Has the – um," Willie tried to think of a suitable follow-up question that did not involve Neil's well-being. "How have the DRV responded?"

"They haven't yet, to our knowledge," Hardwick replied. "The area is already swarming with military police, of course, which does not necessarily mean they plan on announcing Phạm's death as an assassination. After all, he was a known enemy general. For appearance's sake they're not going to be too upset."

"And if they do?" said Willie.

"Than the South Vietnamese and the US government will deny all knowledge."

"What about Britain?"

"I doubt very much the DRV will think to ask us."

"So we've officially washed our hands of Neil Burnside, have we?" Willie demanded, hearing the note of panic even in his own ears. He cuffed his sweaty palms on his pant legs.

Hardwick's face was unmoving, his voice cutting. "Don't you ever accuse me of having anything less than my operatives' best interests at heart, Sandbagger Two."

Willie swallowed. His throat was dry. "Sorry, sir."

"It's alright, Caine." Hardwick said gruffly. "I understand it's been a trying night."

"Yes, sir."

"I wanted to let you know about Burnside because, come oh-four-hundred, if there's been no further word on his status, you'll be on your way to Saigon on the five o'clock fight from Heathrow."

"Sir?" said Willie, stifling, just as he had his rising panic, the new sense of blossoming relief. Willie should have known Hardwick hadn't any genuine plans in leaving Neil in a lurch. "What about C? He's forbidden any further action in Saigon."

"That's right, he has," said Hardwick. "And he has another hour and fifteen minutes in which to change his mind."

Willie nearly cracked a smile. "Yes, sir."

"I suggest you head down to Missions Planning, Caine. You've plenty to prepare for, should the time come for action."

"Yes, sir."

The telephone was ringing in the outer office as Willie was leaving. He heard Diane pick up the phone and, a moment later, buzz Hardwick through the intercom. Willie had just pressed the button for the lift when Hardwick called to him from down the hall.

"Caine, listen, I've got Burnside's wife on the phone –"

"Belinda?" said Willie.

"She's nearly hysterical."

"How could Belinda have possibly heard anything?" said Willie.

"Confounded nuisance having a Sandbagger married to the daughter of the wretched PUS himself. She's fed all the information by darling daddy half a second after we are. Listen, you'll deal with the bloody woman, won't you?"

Willie had already wheeled around and was making his way back to the office. "Of course, sir."

"She's holding on the external line." Hardwick disappeared back into his office and Diane grimaced at Willie in pity.

Willie tried very hard not to breathe a sigh of longsuffering resignation and snatched the receiver off its cradle. "Belinda? No, I'm afraid he's engaged at the moment. This is Willie…."

* * *

Willie had been stationed in Thailand during his time in the RAF and had once been flown into Nui Dat under a need to know basis that did not include that Willie, himself, needed to know anything about it. He'd landed by parachute because the RAF had been unwilling to put one of their planes directly on Vietnam soil. He'd been ordered to pose as an Australian if anyone should ask any questions and replaced his RAF shoulder titles with RAAF ones.

It had been a simple operation, done when Willie was not yet quite aware of the significance of the term "military intelligence section six": standard courier work, a locked briefcase, strict instructions on who was allowed to handle it, a "good day, Sergeant Caine", pat on the head and flight back to Bangkok when it was all over. About a month later he was asked over to SIS Singapore Station, congratulated for his work in Nui Dat and asked what exactly he was interested in doing once his tour was over in another five weeks.

Willie recalled the moist heat of the jungle after he'd landed in his parachute. He wondered if Vietnam still felt the same, if he'd recognize it now just by the smell of it, even when his only glimpse had been at night, soaring over the top of its oceans of jungle. Rarely had he experienced fear quite like that night, but with it had come nauseating adrenaline pounding in his stomach, an acute awareness of being alive, exhilarating and addictive – at least that's what he figured it had been; otherwise he didn't know why he kept coming back for more. Over the years the excitement of the operations had disappeared, and he found himself left only with the fear.

It was nearly four o'clock now. Willie had been briefed until he could nearly recite the names of his contacts backwards. He was called back up to Hardwick's office, by Diane this time, her smile dissolved in the drawl of exhaustion in her voice.

"He's with C, Willie," Diane said when he reached the outer office. "Said you could go right in to wait."

"Right, thanks," said Willie. He went into Hardwick's office and took a chair, easing away some of the tension in his shoulders. He shut his eyes, only for a moment, and wondered if he'd manage to get any sleep on the flight over to Vietnam. He'd never been one for sleeping on planes, strange given how much of his life he'd spent on them, but he'd always been distracted by the humming of the engine, the vibrations and turbulence of the flight.

"Caine," said Hardwick, barging through the door into the office.

Willie's eyes snapped back open, "Sir." He was grateful when Hardwick didn't make any disparaging remark about sleeping on the job.

Hardwick slid into his chair behind the desk with a sigh. He braced his elbows on the desk and folded his square knuckles beneath his chin. Willie knew just by looking at him that what he had to say wasn't going to be good news.

"The Saigon operation's off," Hardwick said grimly. His face was gray and drawn. There were dark bruises under his eyes. He looked incredibly tired to Willie, and suddenly very old.

Willie reached up a hand to put it to his head but stopped halfway and let his arm swing limply back to his side. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Sir –"

"I've done everything I could, Caine, but C won't budge. There is to be no further SIS involvement in Vietnam."

"What about Neil, then?"

"Burnside still has not made contact. There are reports that a man was seen fleeing the scene after Phạm was shot. He was pursued but not apprehended."

"Then he's still alive."

"So it would seem," said Hardwick, but he might as well have said _for the time being_.

"Damn," Willie hissed, shaking his head. He had curled his right hand into a fist and was beating it softly against his thigh. "Damn."

Hardwick cleared his throat. "Yes, well, C hasn't left you with nothing else to do. He wants you to go to Somalia, get to Judd and get the rest of our envoy out."

"Somalia?" said Willie, his voice must have betrayed his astonishment and frustration for Hardwick's scowl deepened across the desk. "We've already got a bloody Sandbagger in Somalia!"

"Judd has still yet to make contact," said Hardwick tersely, barely moving his thin lips.

"Damn Judd," said Willie. "Bob's a bloody kid playing at spies. So, let him play hero, as well. Let him drag the bloody envoy back home."

"Hives was able to get a signal off to us," Hardwick interrupted. "Judd has apparently completely disappeared. No one in the embassy has seen him since nineteen-hundred last night."

Willie's mouth snapped shut so quickly he heard his teeth click together. He breathed slowly through his nose, feeling his chest expand, willing himself to get a hold of himself. He pulled his hand back up to his face, using his thumb to massage right temple, which had begun to ache with a sharp and insistent pain. "Dammit, Bob," he muttered.

"Soviet forces seemed to have at least partially quelled the coup. Lutara is back in the seat of power. Mogadishu is in a shambles. Arrests have been made left, right, and center. You know as well as I do that Lutara is not a forgiving man. There's talk of mass executions. There are no incoming or outgoing flights from the city. Our people cannot leave the embassy unless they risk being apprehended by the Soviets or Lutara."

"Our bloody people."

"Sir Roderick Hives is the Deputy Undersecretary of the Foreign Office, Caine. With him are also cabinet ministers Edmund Chandler and Philip Lawrence –"

"And who could possibly think of lousy Sandbagger Neil Burnside against all of them!" said Willie.

"You've a duty to this service and your country, Caine –"

"Don't tell me about duty," said Willie. He was on his feet and he could not remember making the decision to stand. "Burnside was doing his bloody duty when you sent him off to Vietnam. Judd was doing his duty babysitting a load of wealthy diplomats. Look where that's landed them both –"

"You can't be in two places at once, Sandbagger Two!" Hardwick said heatedly. Hardwick rarely yelled; his aggression usually took the form of a precise and deadly quiet. "C has endorsed your operation in Mogadishu. There's nothing left to discuss. There's a flight from Heathrow to Turkey in forty-five minutes. From there you'll catch a flight the rest of the way to Somalia."

"Then it's off to save Hives and the rest of them and tossing Neil to the wolves?"

"Burnside isn't dead yet, Caine."

Willie sat back down. No, not bloody yet he wasn't, and if he knew Neil then he wasn't going to make it easy for them to make it otherwise.

"Alright, Caine. That's all. Get into the embassy, get Hives and the rest and bring them back home. And if at all possibly find out what the hell Judd's gotten himself into this time."

"Yes, sir." Willie nodded shortly and left the office, rubbing his face roughly to try to get rid of the tired heaviness in his eyes.


	3. Being the Hero

Chapter Three – Being the Hero:

* * *

It was twelve hour flight, with a thirty minute stopover in Istanbul. The International Airport in Mogadishu was closed which meant a transfer to a domestic flight in Hargeisa for a rerouting to the K50 Airport, fifty-minutes outside of the capitol. It was eighteen-hundred by the time Willie finally arrived at his final destination, and he remembered to reset his watch to twenty-one-hundred to allow for the time change.

Although it was already dark, the warmth of the day had not yet dissolved into cooler night air and the dry, static desert heat slid over Willie like a cocoon as soon as he stepped out of the plane. Willie walked across the hard-packed dirt runway, illuminated by haloed and flickering lampposts, kicking up puffs of dust behind his heels. There was no wind and the air smelt like burnt rubber and airplane fuel.

The flight had been tortuous, hour after hour of being completely closed off from the rest of the world and SIS, what was happening with Neil, any developments on what Willie might find once he reached Mogadishu. He was certain that, once he reached the embassy, Bob would have been found safe and sound, and had better have prepared one hell of an excuse.

"You Caine?"

Willie stared into the patchy darkness and caught sight of a parked jeep and rumpled figure slouching against the hood. He could see the red glow of the embers at the end of the man's cigarette. The man didn't wait for Willie to reply before stepping forward, flicking the ash off the tip of his cigarette and blowing out a cloud of smoke, extending his hand across the distance.

"Pete Roach," he said in a casual, slurred drawl. "Wayward ink slinger, incurable bastard, and your bloody chauffeur."

Willie switched his bag from his right arm to his left and clasped Roach's offered hand. "Willie Caine." Roach's palm was calloused and dry.

"Wotcher," said Roach around the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He was a tall and gangly man, with shaggy ginger hair and a rusty dusting of yesterday morning's stubble on his jaw. His suit was ill-fitting and shabby and skin an unhealthy grayish tint in the poor lighting. He seemed the kind of man who would be incapable of performing day to day functions if not at least partially inebriated. "Might as well get going, Will. Wasted enough time as it is. I've got work to get back to."

"Right," said Willie, and went around the car to the passenger side as Roach climbed back behind the wheel.

The jeep was a two-door Willys CJ with no actual doors and looked like it had survived the 1950's, with a canvas top, shredded upholstery, and a rusted frame coated in a film of dust. The motor gave an unwilling sputter and whine when Roach started the ignition but eventually succeeded in turning over and the jeep juddered forward.

Roach tore his cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it out of the open doorway. "Welcome to our charming little corner of hell, Will," he said. "You attached to those government types at the embassy, are you?"

"Something like that," said Willie.

"Bloody muscle man, are you? Here to bring them all safely home to mummy?" Roach guided the jeep deftly around potholes and bumps even as they swelled unexpectedly out of the darkness. "You packing heat?"

Willie didn't answer.

Roach laughed and took both hands off the wheel in order to fish out another cigarette and light it. The jeep swerved dangerously but he caught hold of the wheel again in time to stop it from running off the road. He offered Willie a cigarette. Willie declined.

"Certainly come at a good time, Will," Roach continued, apparently predisposed to the newspaper man's curse of, having no external information near at hand, offering his own in order to fill the void left by silence. "Peak of the travel season, flora all wilted in the desert heat, local militia sporting submachine guns, civilians lying bleeding in the street, and our very own President Lutara leading us forward with a knife in hand and grin on his face."

Willie was halfway inclined to recommend Roach keep his flourishing descriptions for his column but held his tongue, listening for any useful bit of information that Roach might accidently let slip through his drivel.

"What about the men at the embassy?" said Willie. "Have they been threatened at all?"

"Lutara's keeping them under lock and key, isn't he?" said Roach, as though daring Willie to challenge him. "Soviets, of course, won't dare touch 'um. Don't want to cause any international incidents. But Lutara isn't letting any of them out of his sight. You'll have a hell of a time getting them down to the corner store, Will, let alone out of the country."

"Right, well, let me worry about that," said Willie tersely.

Roach laughed again and took a draw from his cigarette. "Too bloody serious, Will. Got to live life with a spot of humor – no telling when you might go to the wall."

"Have you met a man by the name of Robert Judd?" said Willie.

"Judd?" Roach echoed. "What, you mean little Bobby. He a boyfriend of yours, is he?"

"You've met him, then?" Willie pressed on. Willie, who as a rule could find something likable in nearly anyone he met, was finding Roach an especially difficult specimen to apply this philosophy to.

"Sure, I've met him," said Roach. "Cheeky little bugger. Ad nauseum hair and self-opinion. Didn't know how to leave well enough alone. Always down to pester me and the boys with some kind of problem."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Roach tapped his finger contemplatively on the steering wheel. "Dunno. Must have been last night."

"Where was he?"

"Grabbing a beer at the club," said Roach offhandedly. Willie observed him carefully out of the corner of his eye. "Wanted to catch up on all the gossip. Got the impression he was just anxious to escape the rest of the political bores he'd come in with."

"When did he leave?" said Willie.

"Dunno," said Roach, and threw a conspiratorial grin at Willie. "Stoned out of my head, wasn't I?"

"Before or after the coup broke out?" Willie continued patiently.

Roach shrugged, eyes back on the road. "Dunno, I said. Might have been before. Maybe after. Dunno."

"I thought a reporter would have a head for details," said Willie.

"Listen, Caine," said Roach heatedly. "I was putting my feet up after a hard day's work. I couldn't have cared less about keeping my eye on your bloody boyfriend."

Willie didn't respond. He looked outside the open doorway, feeling the warm air spill into the jeep. They were driving a good deal faster than Willie would have preferred but he wasn't about to say anything to Roach, afraid it would just cause the man to accelerate further.

Roach finished smoking his cigarette in silence before chucking it out of the jeep's door like he had his first. He turned to Willie, flashed him a grin, and said, "Don't tell me you're another bloody spook, Will."

"Another?" said Willie, raising his eyebrows.

"Like your boyfriend Bobby," said Roach. "Nosing around like the worst of them. Saw right through him as soon as he got here."

"Did you?" said Willie.

Roach chuckled meanly. "Don't give me that. You watchers all have the same look about you, hunted like a bloody escaped convict. Too aware of your surrounding if you know what I mean. Asking too many bloody questions."

"Like reporters, you mean?" said Willie.

"You're not a reporter, Will," said Roach. "Neither was your boyfriend Bobby. Too clean, the both of you."

* * *

Rarely had Willie the occasion to meet Sir Roderick Hives, but he was now just as pompous and aloof as Willie recalled him in the past, blinking up at Willie from an armchair, fanning himself lazily with one hand while his stringy blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Caine, goodness, it's a relief to see you."

"Yes, sir," said Willie.

"I trust this means we shall be leaving this dismal place in due course?" Hives paused to take a sip of his tea, apparently the climate never too hot to allow for an evening's steaming cuppa.

"As soon as possible, sir," Willie answered.

Hives sighed. "Glad to hear it, Caine. Certainly glad to hear it."

"Excuse me, sir, but I have to let home know I've arrived safely."

"By all means, Caine." Hives dismissed Willie with a flourish of his hand. The ambassador's sweet was a sparsely equipped room, albeit decorous in comparison to the rest of the embassy, with walls paneled in glossy wood and plush furniture. The rest of the embassy looked as if it was in the middle of a construction job that was never liable to be finished. Light fixtures hung naked from the ceiling, the walls were papered in spotty plaster, and floors were boarded with splintered and warped slabs of wood.

Willie made his way to the small and cluttered control room at the end of the hall, corners stacked high with decades' old paperwork, filing cabinets with their drawers bulging open, electrical wire slithering across the floor, and a single cloudy window set high in the wall near the ceiling.

The rotor machine was on a desk under the window, cleared off evidently after Bob's last use of it. It was an outdated model, Willie noted, and somehow wasn't at all surprised.

"You must be Caine, sir," said a shadow from another corner and Willie nearly jumped out of his skin. The speaker was a small man, bespectacled and mousy, just the kind of failed intelligence officer who would be shoved out of the way in a corner like Somalia.

"Right, Willie Caine," said Willie, recovering quickly and offering his hand.

"Mason, sir. Oliver Mason." He had the kind of triangular, shriveled face that might have belonged to any age at all, be it twenty or eighty. His thick-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes to twice their normal size.

"Oliver," Willie mustered a smile. "You the local piano player?"

"Sir?"

"You work the rotor?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Indeed, sir."

"Right, well, immediate to London, right?" Willie fished for a scrap of paper and pen among the mess and scrawled a hasty message for Hardwick (Arrived safely – Little brother still missing – Company found to be in good health – Any word on the prodigal? – Awaiting further orders) and stood behind Mason's shoulder as he fed it through the machine until Willie realized it seemed to make the man nervous and stepped back a pace or two.

"You met Bob Judd, did you?" said Willie as he waited for a reply from London.

"Yes, sir, nice boy," said Mason, smiling fretfully and with a touch of nostalgia that Willie didn't like because it made him think that perhaps Mason was already speaking in the past tense.

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday evening, sir. Had a bite to eat with me before heading off to the club."

"The club?"

"Grubby Western pub. 'Bout a twenty minute walk. Close to the port. Serves as the informal news bureau in the city."

"And that was the last time you saw him?" said Willie. "He didn't say what he was going for?"

"No, sir," said Mason, and shrugged. "Said he wanted to get a drink."

"Haven't got anything on hand?" Willie hated anything to do with damned investigating. He never knew the right questions to ask, when to ask them, or where to go next.

"Not really, sir. At least not anything that interested Judd. Said he wanted a bottle of hard and dirty British liquor."

Willie pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Well, that certainly confirmed that it had been, indeed, Bob Judd who Mason had spoken to, but that had never been in question.

The rotor machine burst to life with a clatter and Mason jumped forward to receive the message. He handed the signal over to Willie when he was done. The signals were, of course, thrice encrypted, twice over in cryptogram and lastly with a rather elementary open code.

Proceed as previously directed – Do not worry about little brother unless convenient – Big brother still away and will possibly be entertaining cousins in near future – Expect to see you again soon.

It was Hardwick's own charming way of telling Willie to get the damned job over and done with and back home to Britain. Neil, though still evidently in Vietnam, at least continued to be unscathed and undetected by authorities. Word that the Americans may be stepping in was a welcome relief; it had been the CIA's bloody operation in the first place and they might at least put themselves at risk to bring Neil back in safely. The bit about abandoning Bob in favor of hauling Hives out of the embassy Willie decided to ignore for now.

"Bad news, sir?" said Mason and Willie realized he must have been grimacing.

"Nothing I didn't expect," Willie sighed. "Thank you, Oliver."

"Pleasure, sir."

Willie made his way back into the hallway and rapped his knuckles on Hive's room, entering at a word from within.

"News from London, Caine?" said Hives. He had moved from his armchair and was now perched on the edge of his made bed. Willie fleetingly wondered who had made it for him, as the maid service seemed to absent and he doubted that Hives would be capable of doing it himself. Perhaps it had been Mason.

"Yes, sir," said Willie. "We're to stay the night and leave first thing in the morning. We'll retrace my route, take a car west, fly to Hargeisa and then back home. The Soviets certainly won't risk intercepting us and Lutara would have to be mad to try anything other than check our papers and let us pass."

There had been armed guards at the embassy gates, curtesy of Lutara under pretense of protecting his esteemed British guests against any further rogue insurgents, but Willie had sensed a hidden menace in their demeanor while waiting for them to survey and return his passport on the way in.

"Righto," said Hives. "Er – Caine – it may certainly be my imagination, but to be perfectly honest I feel a touch uneasy about Lutara's attitude toward us. He seemed well – a bit cold when I first met him and if not outright hostile after this mess broke out. Almost like, well," Hives laughed, "almost like he blamed Britain for the coup. A damned bother that it should break out the second we arrived in the country, eh? Bit of an unfortunate coincidence, at least."

"Certainly odd, sir," Willie agreed.

"Listen, any word on your man Judd?"

"I was about to ask you the same question actually, sir."

"Oh," Hives frowned. "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there, Caine. Disastrous that he should disappear right at this instant, though, isn't it? I do hope he's alright, of course, but it is a shame he couldn't have managed to stick it out – would have stopped you from having to come down, at least. I can imagine Hardwick's a bit pressed for hands now." Hives said it as though Bob's absence had been of Bob's own doing, something of which Willie was now nearly certain to be untrue.

"When was the last time you saw him, sir?"

"Yesterday afternoon, wasn't it?" said Hives distractedly. "Not as if I was his keeper after all. Rather the other way around, in fact. Although of course Judd was under no obligation to keep us under watch when we were inside the embassy."

"Yes, sir," said Willie. "And Judd didn't happen to mention to you anything he might be doing, off to go sightseeing, sniff around Lutara's palace?"

"Lutara's palace?" said Hives. "I should certainly hope not. We were here on a mission of diplomacy, after all, not one of your – what do you call them? – special operations."

"Of course, sir. Then Judd didn't say anything at all about what he might have been interested in?"

"Hardly, Caine. Kept to himself, I would say. Seemed a bit irritable, in fact, like he was unhappy that he'd been dragged along – completely preposterous, of course. What we're paying you lot for, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Willie agreed gravely. "Well, if you don't mind I think I might have a look around, see if I can't find out what Judd got himself into."

"I say, Caine, you don't think something unfortunate has happened to the lad?"

"I hope not, sir," said Willie.

Hives gave a little shrug of his shoulders and clicked his tongue. He continued as a second thought, "I'd better let you know, Caine – there's an eleven o'clock curfew on the place. It wouldn't do to upset our already rather riled hosts, eh?"

"Of course not, sir." Willie had found from experience that rarely were curfews cause for serious worry, especially in an unstable city like Mogadishu, where the armed militia would have much better things to do than make sure a simple British civil servant went to bed on time.

"And I do hope you don't plan on getting carried away with this, Caine," said Hives. "After all, if we are to stick to your plan of leaving in the morning than you certainly haven't much time or resources in which to launch a search party for Judd."

"No, sir," said Willie, and moved toward the door. "Though I'd better let you know, I have no intentions of leaving in the morning unless Judd is leaving with us."

* * *

The electric fan in the ceiling of the club sputtered and spun with an unceasing, thumping drone as it struggled to alleviate the stifled heat, but only seemed to rearrange the warm air from one side of the room to the other. The club was a dingy saloon in the basement of one of the abandoned seaside inns. It appeared to serve, in addition to the unofficial bureau headquarters for disgraced foreign correspondents of the theater, as a Western refuge for tourists and travelers stranded and bewildered by the unexpectedly hostile political climate.

There was a collection of ill-assorted tables and chairs scattered across the shadowy floor. At one sat several reporters over dusty bottles of beer and a dissected newspaper. Each had a page in hand, scanning it for more interesting stories then what they'd been left with after a general lull had descended over the city again once the coup had disbanded. A man with a woman in his lap was sitting in a dark corner. Two men at the end of the bar were sweating in gray suits and speaking in hushed voices, apparently stuck there while on business and now too nervous to go back to their hotel rooms to try to get some sleep.

There didn't appear to be anyone manning the bar. Willie wondered if the booze was being paid for in good faith, or if such a concept still existed in a deserted scrapyard like this.

Willie walked over to the figure of Pete Roach, dangling off a stool at the bar, shoulders slumped over the counter. Roach must have heard him approach for he turned and addressed Willie with a sloppy grin. "Evening, Will. Pull up a chair, grab a beer – on the house." He had a half-empty bottle in front of him and Willie knew it must have been warm. He wondered if the refrigerator was broken.

"Let me introduce you to my esteemed associate," Roach tossed his hand to his dark companion sitting by his side, a stringy African man with a mouth full of chipped teeth and wary brown eyes that had fixed themselves on Willie as soon as he'd approached and not moved an inch since then. "Mahad Okar. Mahad, say hello to Mr. Caine. Will, say hello to Mahad."

Willie nodded tersely. Okar stared back at him unblinkingly. Willie imagined he must have been Roach's local source of information from within Lutara's lair. Roach took a swig from his bottle.

"And say hello to the rest of the boys while you're at it." Roach gestured wildly over to the table with the reporters who were muttering over their paper, none of which looked over. "Any luck locating your boyfriend yet?"

"I actually had some more questions to ask you about that, Mr. Roach. I wondered if you wouldn't mind stepping outside…?"

"Call me Pete," said Roach and licked his lips as a bit of his beer missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin. "Draw up a chair, Will," he offered again. "Have a nice long chat with your new friend Pete. Tell us all your troubles, all your cares. Got a girl, Will?"

Willie ignored him, staying on his feet and letting Roach talk himself out of his rut, by which time Willie knew he'd be ready to listen.

"You know what we are, Will?" Roach continued unsteadily, head hung over his bottle of beer. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, sitting here day in and day out reporting the same bloody murders in all same bloody countries. And you know what we are?"

Willie wondered how many beers Roach had had in the brief time since he had left him in the jeep, and wondered how many more the man could take until he became completely unintelligible and of no further use to Willie. Okar stood silently by, still watching Willie with an expressions of clear resentment on his face.

"We're bloody vultures, Will. That's what we are. The lot of us." Roach's voice was quiet and slurred. "We make our living off death and destruction, flock to it in a fever, anxious to be the first to burry our ugly heads in the carcass. We hope the man right next to us will be shot so we can be the first to get a picture of it. I'd kill my bloody mother as long as I could write the story for the front page."

"I don't doubt you would, Mr. Roach," Willie answered.

A chuckle burbled unexpectedly out of Roach's throat. "To hell with you, Caine. To hell with your boyfriend. And to hell with my bloody mother."

Willie stepped forward until his shoulder pressed against Roach's back. Okar tensed as though afraid Willie was going to assault him.

"Mr. Roach," said Willie, quite calmly and quietly into Roach's right ear, "I'd like to have a chat with you outside, please. You asked me before if I was carrying a gun. I'll have you know that I am. And I'll also have you know that I don't have any qualms about pulling the trigger. Now, if you please…"

Willie did, indeed, have a revolver strapped into a shoulder harness and hidden under his jacket, but he did not, of course, intend to use it on Roach. However, for Roach, himself, to know that there was clearly no need.

Roach swore quite filthily but pushed himself off the stool and unstably stood. Okar grabbed hold of his elbow but Roach shook him off. Willie walked closely behind him, ushering him toward the door. They left the bar and ascended the short flight of crumbling concrete steps to the dark street above them.

"What are you playing at, Caine?" Roach demanded as soon as they'd stepped outside. The free night air, outside of the stuffy interior of the club, seemed to have brought Roach partially back to his senses. He addressed Willie with some measure of trepidation hidden under a rather shoddy attempt at bravado.

"Shall we take a walk, Mr. Roach?"

"Damn you, Caine, I don't know anything about your boyfriend Judd. I told you before!"

"I haven't asked you about Judd, yet," said Willie evenly, and waved his hand to indicate Roach was to begin walking. Willie fell into step beside him, marching at a brisk trot, and Roach, in his slightly addled state, panted to keep up. Okar tagged along behind them like a silent shadow. "But seeing as he's so near the surface of your mind…."

"Damn you, Caine, I don't know where he's gone! Probably got into a fight with a Soviet and is lying dead in an alley somewhere – bloody fool was in the search of a fight."

"Where did he go after he left the club on Wednesday night?"

"Dunno, I told you!"

They were very near the Mogadishu seaport and the salty smell of the ocean and gutted fish was heavy in the air.

"Did he leave before the coup broke out?" Willie continued, keeping his voice level despite every fiber of his being urging him to whirl around and smash his fist into Roach's foul mug.

"I was drunk out of my skull, Caine. I didn't see him leave."

"Before the coup, wasn't it?" Willie guessed.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"And you went with him, didn't you?"

"No I bloody didn't!" Roach jerked to a stop. His voice rebounded off the hollowed stone buildings, crackled on the stagnant air. Willie firmly took hold of his elbow and steered him onward, conscious of Okar's continued presence behind them – the three of them suspended in an uneasy bond of guns pressed to each other's temples. Willie knew he could make no move of excess force against Roach if he didn't wish to risk the same response from Okar.

"Where did you go?"

"I was in the club when the coup broke out. I don't know where your bloody boyfriend was."

"Did Judd suspect what was going to happen?" Willie had often known Bob to possess an almost uncanny insight while on special operations; it was not outside the realm of possibility that he had somehow managed to guess the impending split of the country's populace.

"Dunno, do I?" Roach spat. "Going on about his bloody delegation and their bloody good will packages and the bloody Soviet ship in port! Half out of his skull, rushing off to be a hero, wanting a bloody scoop!"

"Who was looking for the bloody scoop, Roach?" said Willie coolly. He could feel anger welling inside his chest and he fought to keep it down, unconsciously tightening his grip on Roach's elbow, nails biting into the other man's flesh. "Judd rushed off to be the bloody hero and you followed him out, hoping he'd lead you to the scoop?"

"Damn you, Caine. I've told you I don't know where he went!"

"And the Soviet ship in port?" Willie demanded. "That was before the coup, as well, was it? No wonder the Soviets were able to respond so quickly to the crisis."

The faraway patter of gunshots abruptly split the air and Roach jumped and cursed. Willie found himself curiously unmoved. He knew how to gauge the location of gunfire. The shots were a perfectly safe distance away. He wondered if the gunshots had anything to do with the suspected mass executions Hardwick had mentioned. It would be just like Lutara to carry them out in the dead of night.

"There's a curfew on, Caine," Roach hissed and licked his lips, eyes darting across the darkened street. "They'll shoot us both if they find us out."

"Like they shot Judd?" said Willie. "Is that what happened, the two of you dashed out into the street only to find yourselves in the middle of a bloody uprising?" Willie wondered, had it been daylight, if there still would have been bloodstains to be seen in the dusty roads.

"No, damn you. Judd dashed off to the port. The coup broke out before he got there."

"What was Judd looking for, Roach?"

Roach attempted to tug his elbow out of Willie's grip. "Get off me, Caine, you bastard."

"Then Judd wasn't shot during the coup?" said Willie, not able to feel relief, not able to quite feel anything. His heart was thudding insistently in his chest, clogging his ears, and making it difficult to focus on anything else besides Roach's ragged and frightened face. "What did happen to him, Roach?"

"Bloody Lutara's men got a hold of him," Roach gasped. "He was caught in the middle of it. Dragged him off to one of their bloody prisons."

Willie tried to sort through his scattered thoughts. Quite incongruently he found himself wondering if Neil was still alright, holed up somewhere in Vietnam.

"Where is he now?" Willie demanded. "Is he alright?"

Roach's mouth twisted into a gruesome leer, "Not bloody likely. Lutara distrusts all us Brits. And for good reason. Your bloody delegation came bearing gifts, didn't they? Lutara's not going to let them get away with that."

Roach's insinuation slipped cleanly into place inside Willie's head. "Christ," Willie breathed, pulling them both to a stop. "Christ, Roast. How did the coup get started?"

"It's a military uprising, you know that, Caine –"

"No it wasn't," said Willie. "They had help. The civilians rose up too. How did the civilians get a hold of their weapons?"

"You know how, Caine," Roach sputtered. "You know bloody how."

Willie released Roach's arm. "Send your man Okar to get information from Lutara's men," he said quietly, nodding his chin to the shadow of Okar behind them. "I know he's your contact. I'm not leaving here until I have positive word on Judd. You're going to get it for me."

"Or what, Caine?" Roach demanded, apparently not yet aware that Willie had released him.

Willie didn't answer him. He had no answer prepared. He pressed on stonily, relying on bluff as he had for the whole evening. "Meet me back at the club in the morning, Roach. Oh-eight-hundred, no later."

"Damn you, Caine," said Roach, and spat at Willie's shoes.

Willie didn't respond. Roach tugged away from Willie and snapped a word to Okar. The two of them slinked off, disappearing into the inky darkness almost at once. Willie stood there for a moment in the empty street, listening to the renewed cracking of guns in the distance.

* * *

If Neil Burnside had noticed the pretty pink flowers on the faded blue sheets on the bed, furthermore, had he been in the habit of thinking of his wife while on special operations, then he would have been reminded of Belinda, for the sheets were just like the silly, delicate things she was so fond of. However, in such that Neil neither noticed the pink flowers, nor was in the habit of thinking of anything else while on special operations, let alone Belinda, for risk of being distracted, Neil then did not take any further notice of the sheets before promptly ripping them into strips to use as a sling for his aching right shoulder.

He had dislocated it while fighting off a soldier of the PAVN who had happened upon Neil's position in the abandoned office complex with a convenient view into the courtyard of the Tan Anh Prison Camp. Neil rather thought he had startled the soldier just as much as the soldier had startled Neil. However, he was taking no chances that the soldier's purposes had been anything else but a random check, and Neil had naturally assumed the operation had been blown and proceeded calmly to plan B: over to the bolt-hole for recalibration and hopefully extraction.

Even so, if his cover had not already been blown by the time he'd taken the shot at Phạm, then it certainly would have been as soon as they found the body of the soldier. Granted, however, Neil was not entirely certain that the crack of his rifle butt on the soldier's back of the skull had killed him.

Phạm's, on the other hand, had been a clean kill. One shot, artless but neat, directly through the middle of his forehead. Neil had been able to see it all quite clearly from his perch in the window of the office building and, despite the minor hiccup of his discovery and subsequent abandonment of the plan, the op really had been pulled off quite well.

And that was the exact report, dammit, Neil thought as he gingerly eased his arm into the handmade sling, that he would give Hardwick whenever he got back to bloody England.

The heat was dense and sticky, drenching Neil's forehead in sweat. The bolt-hole was a two room, sparsely furnished flat on the top floor of an apartment complex on the outskirts of the city. Field men thrived on seizing the high ground, better sightlines, more time to prepare a retreat if an assault was noticed, and, as a rule, offering several more escape routes than a ground floor would.

Neil had counted three possible exits: back down the main flight of stairs, out back to a spindly ladder that served as a makeshift fire escape and must have been put into place during the war's merciless bombings, and up another short flight of stairs to the roof, where he could make a jump to the roof of the next building and escape over the skyline. And, if worse came to worst, he could always climb out of a window. All in all, the safe house was a well-stocked, well-positioned fortress, and reasonably secure insofar as he'd not yet had anyone from the PAVN knocking on, or down, the door.

The flat's main room served as a combination of kitchen, living room, and bedroom. It was equipped with a rickety gas stove against the wall, an empty bookshelf on which sat an archaic transistor radio, and a pullout couch that housed a thin and knobby mattress. A bathroom was curtained off from the rest of the room.

It was morning now and a glow of orange sunlight was beginning to thread its way through the blinds in the window that faced the outer street. Neil had been unable to sleep for the pain in his shoulder and had spent the night sitting in the dark so as to not attract any unwanted attention if a light showed from outside.

Neil had been there nearly eighteen hours, trying to formulate an extraction plan in the face of no certain help from the outside. He'd decided to try to stick it out for as long as possible until the hunt died down and the PAVN made the rational decision that obviously the assailant had fled the scene of the crime as soon as possible and was now a good distance from the city.

He had a map of the city spread across the small table by the stove. The map was scribbled over with ink, well-worn and creased, and Neil gave it his full attention, trying to plot his next course of action to continue out of the city and to the nearest coast. The can of beans he'd found on the shelf over the stove and opened for breakfast, sat beside his elbow, completely forgotten.

The quickest route, of course, would be south west to Ca Mau where he would be able to secure SIS contacts within the Vietnamese refugees with the aim of eventually being picked up by Singapore Station, who would undoubtedly be on the lookout for him. Ca Mau was over three-hundred kilometers from Saigon; it would take seven hours by car and nearly nine times as long on foot. That was, of course, ignoring the fact that the country – recently born from the toils of a very long war – would still be crawling with militia and patrols, even more so if Neil's assassination of Phạm had awakened a manhunt.

It was then that Neil became aware of the soft creak of shoes in the hallway. The walls in the apartment complex were paper thin. He had heard every word of the argument between the husband and wife next door the previous night, even if he had been unable to understand it. It had reminded him fleetingly of Belinda and his last argument, the evening before he'd been charged with the special operation and departed for Vietnam. It had been over something trivial, Neil recalled. In fact he couldn't even remember the specifics anymore. He had left before either he or Belinda had had the chance to apologize. Not that either of them would, of course, damned woman.

He waited for the footsteps to pass, thinking it must be one of the other neighbors in the apartment, leaving for an early workday, or a child off to school, perhaps two lovers separating after the long night. But there was something in the tread that immediately put Neil on guard, a soft, measured quality to the footfalls like someone who was deliberately trying not to be heard.

Neil quickly and silently folded his map and stuck it into his back pocket. He again cursed the uselessness of his hurt arm, damned that it would be his right. In field school they'd tried to teach equal dexterity in both right and left sides but Neil had never been very good at hand-to-hand combat in the first place.

He stood from the table and silently moved toward the door to the flat. He picked up the heavy knife he'd found by the stove and put aside the night before, unsharpened and rusted, better suited for slicing bread, but as his only available weapon after he abandoned his rifle, had better do. He braced himself against the wall by the door, next to the hinges so if someone did come in he'd have the advantage of jumping them from behind.

The footsteps in the hallway outside paused on the threshold of Neil's flat. He waited to hear them turn away and enter a neighboring apartment. Only one pair of footsteps, unusual if it should be a policeman or soldier – who wouldn't be likely to approach him without further reinforcements.

Neil held his breath, not making a sound, waiting patiently and feeling the wooden handle of the knife against his palm. Then, startlingly, the stagnant silence was snapped by the gentle rap of knuckles against Neil's door.

"Neil Burnside?" The voice was rough and American, perhaps from New England, a muted Boston Harbor drawl.

Neil didn't answer. He had heard of stranger ploys from enemy agents; he wasn't about to betray his position.

"Burnside? Robert Cheever, CIA. I was called in by your man Hardwick."

Neil cocked an eyebrow but remained silent for a beat longer. He should have known Hardwick would come up with something. Even so, he wasn't sure to be grateful to the man for sending help or irritated that he'd put the operation at risk by sending a man despite C's objections. He was glad, at least, that it wasn't Willie. It would have been madness to risk two Sandbaggers.

"Burnside?" Cheever whispered. "You hear me?"

"What does Hardwick look like?" Neil hissed against the door.

There was a brief pause as Cheever apparently collected himself from the surprise of getting a response. "Dammit, I don't know. I've been stationed in Hong Kong."

"Then who's SIS station chief in Hong Kong?"

"Matthew Peele? Only met him once or twice. Snobbish guys with a caterpillar on his upper lip, doesn't like to mingle with the natives. So are you going to let me in or am I welcoming committee for when the PAVN come by?"

Neil mutely unlocked the door and stepped out of the way as Cheever pushed it open. He kept his knife at ready, gripping the handle tighter as Cheever slipped inside, hands raised to shoulder height.

Cheever shut the door behind him and, hands still in plain sight by his head, turned to see Neil by the wall. His eyes immediately fell on the knife in Neil's hand and he smiled.

"Wouldn't want to get on the wrong end of that."

Neil stared silently at Cheever for a moment, surveying him carefully for any overt sign of deceit, and finally moved to place his knife atop the nearby bookshelf. Cheever took this as a sign of welcome and he put his arms down with a sigh of relief. He had an angular face with heavy eyebrows that gave him the appearance of being perpetually concerned.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Dislocated it fighting off a PAVN man," Neil answered shortly.

"You got found out then, did you?" said Cheever. "I didn't see any watchers outside."

"Doesn't mean they aren't there," said Neil. He had found that often they always were, even when one was not aware of them. The key was to always be wary, to act as if you were being watched at all times regardless. An intelligence man's greatest foil was becoming too comfortable. "Why did Hardwick send you?"

"To find out what happened to you. Or, if you're asking why send specifically _me_ , I'd been stationed in Saigon up to a few months ago. I know the territory pretty well."

"The service didn't need to send someone at all," said Neil. "They should have trusted me to get out on my own."

"Well, you're welcome," said Cheever dryly.

Neil didn't reply. He went over to sit back down at his hastily vacated chair at the table. Cheever followed him and perched on the arm of the threadbare couch.

"You want me to fix that arm?"

"It can wait," said Neil.

Cheever shrugged. "Whatever you want. Probably hurts like hell. It won't get any better and we could have quite a hike in front of us."

"What's your plan then?" said Neil impatiently.

Cheever seemed to get the point and began talking business, speaking briskly, "I've got new papers for you, and a car parked around the next curb. We're headed north out of the city and as far as we can go safely in the car."

"North?"

"Figured it would be the last thing they'd expect. Besides, the ports down south are too well watched, what with the refugee's fleeing by boat."

"Alright," Neil wasn't very happy about it but he couldn't see any way to argue Cheever's logic.

Cheever continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "I'm hoping to get to at least Gia Lai in the car, about ten hours away. I've got a guide from Kon Tum, an old friend from the war, who will meet us there. We'll abandon the car and head the rest of the way on foot, due south to Quy Nhon. Coastal city, about two-hundred kilometers so it will take us a day and a half if we hurry. We're French, okay? You speak French?"

"Of course," said Neil coolly.

"Good," Cheever nodded. "As soon as we get to Quy Nhon we're French business executives, pulling out of the country after our business has gone belly up during the war. In port there'll be a ship waiting to take us over to Honk Kong."

"And before we reach Quy Nhon?" said Neil.

"Before we reach Quy Nhon we're no one," said Cheever, "so we better not be asked."

Neil must not have looked impressed for Cheever continued, "Theoretically all you've done is killed one of their enemy's generals who they would have wanted executed anyway. By all rights they should want to shake your hand."

"Yes, but that's not to say the DRV wouldn't want get their hands on two foreign intelligence officers if they get the chance," said Neil.

"Right," said Cheever.

"How have they responded to Phạm's death?"

"Apparently Phạm died of wounds inflicted before his apprehension," said Cheever scathingly. "Let's just say the US weren't entirely convinced but there isn't much they can do except make disapproving noises. With any luck it will deter the DRV from carrying out any future executions."

Neil acknowledged this with a nod of his head.

Cheever got to his feet. "Well, our ship will be leaving port in four days' time. We'd better get a move on if we want to be on it when it leaves. I really hate to say it again, but – we'll be going over some rough country, your arm –"

"I've told you I can manage," Neil snapped.

Cheever's face darkened. "Don't get any crazy ideas about being a hero, Burnside. I risked my neck getting in here to save your hide and I'm sure of hell not coming out again without it."

Neil clenched his teeth together tightly, unable to pull his eyes away from Cheever's. He wondered how much Hardwick had told Cheever about him, if, in fact, he'd had a chance to tell him anything at all. Neil was well aware that it was the Service's opinion that not the least of Burnside's sins had been afflicting the section with the American obsession of drinking coffee. There was a long list of complaints against him from service personnel ranging from station heads to the secretarial pool, many of who seemed to consider him uncouth and irresponsible. Well, Neil Burnside may have been many things, arrogant and impulsive among them, but inept he was not, and he'd be damned if he let anything get in his way of completing an operation.

He cursed under his breath and started on the knot of his sling. "Alright, Cheever, might as well get it over with."


	4. Vultures

Chapter Four – Vultures:

* * *

"My God," Sir Roderick Hives exclaimed, fixing Willie under his aghast and somewhat patronizing gaze, "Caine, you must be mad! Supply the insurgents with arms?"

"Someone's done it, sir," Willie replied levelly. "And Lutara certainly seems to believe it was us. It would have been quite simple, too, with the foreign aid packages the delegation brought along."

"Disaster relief you mean," Hives corrected Willie. "Food and medical supplies, hardly a declaration of hostility let alone an endorsement of an uprising!"

"Were they ever checked, sir, the packages?"

"I suppose someone must have, of course. Can't very well bring shipments into a foreign country without being vetted for arrival."

Willie brushed passed this detail with a shrug. "I suppose there's always the chance that the people who checked it were working with the insurgents."

"You're out of your mind, Caine!" Hives exclaimed again. "Our government in no way, shape, or form, sanctioned this coup. We were acting on a mission of peace!"

"And you're positive about that, sir? Only it wouldn't be the first time that the British Government did something that the Special Section was the last to know about."

"Her Majesty's Government is hardly in any position to need to ask for permission from _you_ , Caine."

Willie ignored this, deaf to anything but his racing thoughts as he sought to fill the missing pieces in with a flurry of information. He thought about Roach's Soviet ship in the Mogadishu port that Bob had apparently been going to investigate before his capture.

Outside, the dawn was slowly creeping across the sky. The Islamic call to prayer erupted suddenly from the heart of the city, echoing through the streets until it seeped, muffled and eerie, through the walls of the embassy.

"When did the Soviets arrive, sir?" said Willie. "Before or after the coup?"

Hives looked quite affronted, "After, of course, Caine."

"And Judd didn't mention anything to you about a Soviet ship in port beforehand?"

"Just what exactly are you suggesting?"

"Only that someone must have supplied the insurgents with arms. If it wasn't us and wasn't the Somalian military than it must have been the Soviets. Apparently Bob had seen evidence of their presence in the city before the coup broke out."

"Ridiculous, Caine," Hives scoffed. "The Soviets came in to help Lutara. Why should they be responsible for the coup in the first place?"

"A KGB plot?" Willie suggested with a shrug. "At the same time they've ensured Lutara's trust and friendship with them while encouraging his continued distrust of the British. After all, now Lutara thinks we're the ones responsible for bringing in the arms."

"But we hadn't anything to do with that!" said Hives in frustration and Willie stopped himself from retorting that it wasn't he who needed convincing, but Lutara.

"Yes, but it isn't beyond the realms of possibility that the Soviets planted the arms in our shipments, perhaps switched out the goods for guns when our backs were turned; it would certainly explain their presence in the port."

"Why let themselves be seen, then?" said Hives. "Foolish sort of thing to do when performing something as clandestine as this."

"There's no logical reason why they shouldn't be here, sir," Willie answered. "They've been sending humanitarian aid for the past months. Lutara's always favored Kosygin to Wilson."

Hives had gone pale. "If it is as you say, Caine…what does that mean for us? Surely Lutara doesn't mean to act on these unfounded allegations."

Willie shrugged. "There's no telling what he could do."

"Then surely we must leave at once," said Hives firmly, if not a little breathlessly. "There's no point to stick around and wait for Lutara to strike."

"Yes, sir," said Willie, "but we'll hardly be able to leave yet. Lutara –"

"If this is about your man Judd, Caine…" Hives began in warning.

Willie interrupted him. "I'm only asking for a few more hours, sir. I have a contact within Lutara's men –"

"If Judd has indeed been taken to Lutara's prison than that is not our concern," Hives intercut, "but a matter of international diplomacy."

"I refuse to leave him behind, sir," Willie said resolutely. "Not until I've exhausted every option."

"We cannot allow one man to put the rest of us at risk!" Hives exclaimed and Willie knew what he was actually saying was that he was not prepared to risk his own upper class life for that of an insignificant intelligence officer like Bob Judd.

Willie tried not to think about Bob. He tried not to think about Bob in Lutara's prison, Bob being dragged down a hallway by guards, Bob being lined up in front of a wall to be shot. He remembered the gunfire from the night before and suppressed a shudder of fear. The panic came in waves, Willie had noticed, suddenly appearing with a persistent, blank fierceness and just as quickly leaving him with a cold and calculating calm.

"Judd doesn't deserve to be left behind, sir," said Willie. He could not afford to lose his head and so was left with a stern, uncompromising resolve. "And I've told you before that I don't intend to."

"Mind you, Caine," said Hives darkly. "If anything ill comes of this – if anything happens that could otherwise have been avoided had you acted with due haste – on your head be it, Caine."

Willie clenched his teeth. "Understood, sir."

* * *

Post-war Vietnam was a desolate and broken place. The streets were pockmarked with bomb craters and rubble. Skeletal frames of burnt buildings lined the sidewalks. Dirty children played in the gutters under fluttering red flags with gold stars. The stench of smoke, gasoline, and sweating bodies seemed to hang perpetually in the air. The threadbare cities and damaged villages had flown past the windows of Cheever's rusted Ford like crude pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and the car shuddered over the jagged bumps in the street.

They had driven continuously through the day and half the night, taking turns at the wheel while the other shut their eyes under pretense of getting some sleep. Neil, himself, had been unable to nod off and he doubted that Cheever had done so, either. The darkness of night sagged over the car like a black curtain. Narrow jungle paths had replaced the villages long ago and trees bent low over the road to either side of them, branches reaching into the sky, obscuring the stars, and creating a suffocating feeling of claustrophobia.

Cheever was at the wheel and Neil sitting stonily at his side. Cheever drove nimbly through the roads, navigating each twist and turn as though intimately acquainted with them.

"Got a woman back home, have you, Burnside?"

Neil cocked an eyebrow. Cheever had been relatively good at keeping silent until now, perhaps sensing that Neil was not one for idle chitchat. He wondered what had prompted the CIA man to make conversation now, further wondering if Cheever had just gotten bored.

"I'm married, yes."

"Ah, married," said Cheever. "Haven't gotten bagged yet, myself. What's she like, your wife?"

"Belinda?" said Neil, and immediately wondered just how he was to describe her. Young, rich, suave as her mother, calculating as her father. "Not anything very exceptional."

Cheever laughed, revealing only the top row of his teeth. "Not exactly typical pillow talk."

Neil was not in the practice of discussing his personal life while on an operation and ignored Cheever, staring out the window at the passing vegetation.

"Who's this man we're meeting, anyway?" Neil asked irritably, turning again to glance at Cheever.

"His name's Lý Tôn Binh," Cheever answered. "One of the Montagnard people. Good man, good fighter. Had his chance to leave Saigon last April but elected to stay behind, hold down the fort."

"Isn't that rather foolish?" said Neil. "The PAVN must be looking for him."

Cheever lifted one hand off the steering wheel and waved it toward the car window and the passing trees and undergrowth of the shadowy and mysterious jungle. "There's still plenty of places to hide in there, Burnside. Besides, most of his people stayed. They were trained by the Greenies to cut off the North Vietnamese supply lines into the South. I met Binh through Operation Phoenix."

"Ah yes," said Neil, remembering Willie's rather ostentatious description of the 'CIA's official murder program.' "Operation Phoenix. We have heard a lot about that, haven't we?"

Cheever's lips turned upward at the corner but he wasn't smiling. "Orders is orders, Burnside, even when the world has lost its sense of proportion."

Neil didn't reply. It wasn't as if he could say he hadn't ever followed an order he'd found questionable. After all, he recalled, it had been his bullet not a day and a half ago to fell another human being. Phạm An Bào, too, had just been doing his job, following orders same as Neil.

"The general communist conspiracy has gone rather out of fashion, Neil, don't you think?" one of Belinda's friends had asked at one of the tiring little dinner parties she liked to devise, casting the characters and sculpting the dialog like a talented puppet master. No, Neil didn't. He didn't think the threat of communism was any less dire than it had been after the Second World War, and he didn't think it was liable to become so any time soon, and Neil would be damned if he'd ever find himself working for a service who felt otherwise.

"Never thought I'd come back," Cheever continued softly and pulled Neil abruptly back to the present, jolting along a winding jungle path as they were. Cheever was staring impassively out of the windshield. "Nam's got a certain feel to it, you know? There's something in the air. I tell you, plays strange tricks on your mind. Got the feeling something's watching you from behind every tree, just out of sight no matter how long and hard you look for it." Cheever shook his head. "Feels like I never left."

Neil stared at his companion without speaking, wondering what else hid behind Cheever's stolid appearance and droll asides and decided that Cheever was a decent operations man. Neil might even concede that, without Cheever's help, he may very well have been caught by the PAVN by now and off to a North Vietnamese prison camp.

* * *

Willie found Peter Roach in the Foreign Correspondent's club, a grubby figure slumped over a table in the corner. Okar was sitting across the table from him, alert and watchful like a sentry guarding his charge while he slept. Willie's stomach was roiling and he made himself think of different things: getting dinner with Pricilla back in London, English rain pattering against the windows of a cab, Hives waiting to leave back at the embassy, anything but Bob in Lutara's prison.

He approached Roach's table briskly. It was exactly eight o'clock. With the dawning daylight, the signs of the coup that Willie had otherwise missed in the darkness of the night before had now been illuminated: shattered glass from storefront windows, crooked streetlamps and crumpled litter lying in the dusty streets. The city had been fitted with an uneasy, restless quiet that penetrated even the embassy's solid, fortress-like walls and the dingy, lazy atmosphere of the club.

Okar tensed as Willie came forward. Willie hesitated for only a moment, scanning Okar's wiry but strong looking arms and wondered what there could be within Roach to inspire such loyalty.

Willie closed his hand around Roach's shoulder and gave the man a slight shake. "Roach. Get up."

Roach stirred, shook his head, and batted Willie's hand away. "Gerroff – oh, Caine," He blinked, eyes bleary and red. "Bloody hell."

"Alright, Roach," said Willie tersely. "Your time's up. What have you heard about Judd?"

"Surprised you're still around," Roach continued, unsteadily rising with one hand pressing against the top of the table for support. "Lutara's making noises about moving against your embassy friends, wants you all out of his bloody country."

"Don't drag your feet, Roach," Willie said impatiently. "What about Judd?"

"Still worried about your missing boyfriend, are you, Caine?" Willie could smell his breath, hot and sour with the stink of alcohol.

"I'm warning you, Roach –" Willie fought against the anger building in his chest. He curled his hands into fists at his sides.

Roach waved a hand lazily to Okar, who had also stood from the table and was hovering uneasily between the two of them as though prepared to obstruct Willie at the merest hint of violence. "Ask Mahad, why don't you? Mahad knows all about your boyfriend, doesn't he? Mahad, tell Mr. Caine what you found out."

Willie was uncertain whether or not Okar could understand English but he had perked up at the sound of his name and said something to Roach in Somali.

Roach batted Okar away, fixing his bleary gaze on Willie, tipping forward slightly but stopping himself before falling over.

"You've heard about little Bobby, haven't you, Mahad?" Roach laughed. "Said Lutara tossed him in one of his pleasant little underground torture chambers, didn't he? No one gets out once they go in, do they, Caine?"

Willie clenched his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He concentrated on breathing deeply through his nose, not tearing his eyes away from Roach's filthy face, thinking about Neil in Vietnam, Hives back at the embassy, Hardwick waiting back in London, but certainly not about Bob – twenty-five-year-old Bob –

"Tied him over an anthill and slashed his belly, didn't they?" Roach slurred. "Driver ants. Nasty little buggers. They've been known to devour a cow in a matter of minutes, leave nothing but a pile of white bones, picked clean. One of Lutara's favorite tricks – he likes to watch it, smiles right around the time they start screaming –"

Afterward Willie couldn't remember how exactly it had happened but suddenly Roach was reeling backward, clattering against the table with his hands covering his nose, blood leaking through his fingers. Willie's right knuckles were aching sharply and Okar was holding Willie's wrist, stopping him from striking another blow.

Later he was almost convinced he spat the words "damned liar" at Roach's crumpled face but he wasn't certain; he liked to believe he had managed to maintain a bit more of his composure.

Willie tugged his wrist out of Okar's grasp and turned on his heel, walking blindly out of the club, up the stairs to the street where stifling, crackling heat throbbed off the road and slapped against him as soon as he emerged into the naked desert sunlight.

He didn't know where he was going. He could feel the eyes of the uniformed, gun carrying Soviet militia acutely, following him down the lane as he stumbled away from the club, still smelling Roach's foul breath, knuckles throbbing, sick fear churning in his stomach, Roach's voice reverberating emptily in his skull: _pleasant little underground torture chambers…tied him over an anthill and slashed his belly… no one gets out once they go in_.

Willie realize he was making his way back to the embassy, vague plans of telling Hives about Judd, wiring Hardwick, grabbing his gun and going to storm Lutara's prison by himself, spinning half-formed in his head.

He fumbled for his papers at the gates to the embassy and eventually succeeded in handing his passport to the guards, realizing dimly that his fingers were trembling. He looked up at the scowling sentry, one of Lutara's men, and wondered if this man had been the one to drag Bob to prison or tie him to the ground or slash his stomach open –

Willie snatched his passport back and stuffed it into his pocket, marching back to the embassy's front doors, taking the steps at a near run. His heart pattered with painful haste inside his chest. Nauseous despair, delirious fear, and wild, uncertain hope twisted in his stomach until he was sure he was going to vomit.

Willie was a fool; he'd acted without thinking, let his emotions get the better of him. He should have stayed in the club, interrogated Roach further, gotten all the details, made him declare hard proof. Bob may, in fact, still be alive – Roach might have been mistaken, had perhaps hoped to provoke Willie with spiteful half-truths – Bob might yet still be alive – Bob might yet still –

"Sir!"

Willie spun wildly on his heel and confronted Oliver Mason, who was rushing down the hallway from the control room. He was pale, sweating profusely, and trembling with nervous energy. He was holding an envelope in his small, shaking hand; Willie held his hand out for it but Mason didn't pass it over.

"Sir, emergency signal from London. Embassy personnel to withdraw immediately," Mason swallowed and adjusted his glasses which had been sliding down his greasy nose. "They've – er- received word from Lutara, confirmed capture of –" Mason cleared his throat and blinked. "– British secret service agent Robert Judd."

"Jesus," said Willie, mind reeling. He braced his hand against the wall, knees threatening to buckle. He swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat.

"And, sir," Mason lifted the envelope in his hand, passing it to Willie. "Dropped off by one of Lutara's men, sir –"

Willie took hold of the envelope. Mason seemed to have disappeared from Willie's vision, melted into the chipped plaster wall.

"Sir –"

Willie walked down the hall, heading toward the men's lavatory. He pushed open the door with his shoulder. Bare pipes climbed the opposite wall. There was a pool of water under the sink from a leak in the plumbing. Willie struggled to open the envelope, still sealed; evidently Mason had lacked the courage to peek inside.

Willie's fingers were quivering almost too hard to slide the contents of the envelope into his hand. They'd sent pictures. Three in all: cheap Polaroid shots, grainy and foggy but clear enough for Willie to be certain that the maimed body and face, grossly contorted from pain, did indeed belong to twenty-five-year-old Bob Judd.

The heat in the bathroom was heavy and suffocating. A sheen of sweat formed on Willie's forehead and back of his neck. He could taste acid on the back of his tongue. The photographs fluttered to the dirty concrete floor as they slipped out of his palm.

Willie braced is hands on both sides of the sink basin, elbows locked and head bowed. He screwed shut his eyes in order to avoid looking at his pale and haggard face in the tarnished mirror. He gasped for breath and ineffectively willed himself not to be sick.

Willie's throat was raw and head aching when he came back into the hall. Mason was still standing where Willie had left him, evidently too dumbstruck to do anything at all productive. Willie snapped at him to get a move on and Mason stumbled off to the control room to begin packing up or destroying any sensitive material.

Willie walked over to the ambassador's sweet and cracked his bruised knuckles on the door.

"Come," said Hives from within and Willie shoved his way into the room without another word.

"Caine!" said Hives angrily, catching sight of Willie. "What in heaven's name have you been doing? There's an emergency signal from London – we're to return immediately, damn your friend Judd –"

"Judd is dead," said Willie sharply and Hive's eyes widened.

"My God –"

"Pack your things," Willie continued, voice struggling to climb out of his taught throat. "We're leaving as soon as possible."

"My God, Judd," said Hives faintly and Willie wondered bitterly where _damn your friend Judd_ had gone. "Lutara must be out of his mind – killing a British national – out of his mind…"

"That was never a question to begin with, sir," said Willie. "Excuse me…"

"But, Caine –" Hives continued. "I mean to say, how did it happen, Caine?"

Willie stared at Hives without speaking, surveying his fitted, expensive suit and delicate, bureaucratic facade, and wondered what expression might cross Hives face if Willie showed him the photographs currently lying on the damp bathroom floor.

"I'm sorry, sir," said Willie finally, "but I've got plenty to get done before we leave."

* * *

The pub was crowded and loud. Manchester City was playing Arsenal on the television behind the bar and the counter was swarmed with supporters for either side, grasping tankards of beer and glasses of whiskey. The chatter of the crowd and static of the television drowned out the patter of rain against the window. It was wet and miserable outside so Willie had ordered a dry martini and taken it to a booth in a dark corner.

It was bloody London and bloody raining again and Willie had almost finished his drink, his third of the evening. His brain was just starting to get soothingly numb and eyesight a bit blurry around the edges when he looked up and saw Neil Burnside standing above his table.

"Thought I'd find you here," said Neil. It was one of their regular haunts, frequented on Friday evenings and after particularly trying operations but lately chiefly abandoned by Neil after his marriage.

"Neil," said Willie. He waved his hand carelessly to indicate Neil should take a seat but Neil was already shrugging off his coat and sliding into the booth. "When'd you get back?"

"This morning," Neil answered, somewhat grimly and Willie didn't blame him, bloody London weather would have anyone down, especially after the heat and sunlight of Vietnam, the dry desert air of Somalia.

"How's the arm?"

Neil rolled his eyes, "Fine." Willie wondered how many times Neil had been asked the same question over the past few hours.

"Glad to hear it."

"You alright, then?" said Neil from across the table, long face typically serious, eyebrows drawn in concern over hard eyes that saw more than Willie would have preferred.

"Yeah, fine," Willie said casually, trying to make his tongue cooperate. "What'll you have then?"

"What're you having?" said Neil, eyeing Willie's glass critically.

"Martini," Willie answered and hoped to God Neil would have grace enough not to make any snarky remarks about shaken-not-stirred. "Felt like celebrating."

"I'll have a scotch and soda," said Neil.

"Right," said Willie, and pushed off the bench. "I'll get first round." It was a bit of trouble getting the drinks because of the crowd watching the football game but Willie eventually succeeded in attracting the barman's attention to place his order. It was several more moments before the barman actually got around to mixing the drinks, wanting to wait until City took its corner kick.

Willie returned to the table, glass in each hand, and placed Neil's drink in front of him before sliding back into his seat.

"So," said Neil sardonically, "what are we celebrating?"

"The home coming of Neil Burnside?" Willie suggested, matching Neil's tone and taking a sip of his drink. "Life in general? The bloody English rain and victory for The Citizens?"

Neil didn't answer. He put his glass of scotch to his lips, tipped it back and swallowed, each movement measured and precise like he was carefully aiming and cocking a gun. He kept his eyes open and on Willie.

"So how are you really then?" Willie demanded slightly roughly, uncomfortable under Neil's gaze. "Heard it was a tough time. Must have been. You were gone for five more days then you were supposed to be."

"I'm alright," said Neil unconcernedly. "Had some help from a CIA man."

"I heard," said Willie.

"Probably saved my life," said Neil with unexpected candor. "I certainly wouldn't have lasted trying to get out on my own."

"Right, well, I'll tell Belinda that's who she should address the thank you note to," said Willie.

"What about you?" said Neil, never one to dwell too long on his own personal welfare, Willie knew. "When did you get back?"

"Late yesterday evening," said Willie, not soon to forget the numb, heart-stopping car ride cross-country to Hargeisa because of the blocking of the K50 airport. Hives had been hysterically babbling in the passenger seat for all the twenty hours. The awareness of Bob's death had threatened at any moment to smash through the wall inside Willie's mind, constructed to guard against any thoughts not beneficial for the operation's completion.

"Hardwick said you didn't check in," said Neil and Willie wondered if it was a reprimand. He didn't find it at all surprising that Neil, himself, had already checked in with Hardwick and wondered if Neil had bothered to stop home to see Belinda, as well.

"I was due for a day off."

Neil stared at Willie carefully. Willie looked away, studying the cobweb of raindrops running down the windowpanes.

"I suppose his parents have been told?" said Neil.

Willie sighed heavily. "Yes. Hardwick went this morning."

"I had better go, as well," said Neil. "I was his head of section."

"Yeah, well," Willie began, "maybe there will be a memorial service. Seeing as there can't be a funeral if they don't give the body back. Lutara won't be too eager to do that, I'm sure." He brought his glass back up to his lips but stopped before taking another drink.

"To Bob Judd," he said, bobbing his glass in a hasty salute, and didn't wait for Neil to agree to the toast before tossing the rest of his drink into his mouth, swallowing it all in one go, alcohol burning his throat like acid. He wondered whether anyone would bother to let little what-was-her-name know. Clara.

"Bob Judd," Neil echoed, and took a sip of his own drink. He put his cup back down on the tabletop with a soft, musical tap of glass on wood.

There was silence for a moment and Willie listened to the jagged surging and undulation of the crowd at the bar as they responded to the football game. The score was tied.

"Wonder who we'll get to replace him?" Willie spoke without consent of his thoughts.

Neil shrugged his thin shoulders. "Not someone from the school again, that's for certain. Probably a man off a station."

"It wasn't Bob's inexperience that got him killed," Willie retorted, with a slightly more hostility than he had intended.

Neil ignored him. "It wasn't just that. Judd was too high strung for the Special Section. Too young to realize we aren't just rushing across the world with guns playing at Bond. He wouldn't have lasted long anyway."

High strung like Neil was? Willie wondered. Arrogant and incautious as any man was apt to be when it was they who were holding the gun, blind to the grenade rolled across the floor to their feet. Bob had merely possessed the naïve invincibility of youth, nothing else.

"I don't suppose Hardwick's discussed any retaliatory procedures with you, has he?" said Willie. "He hasn't said anything to me, of course, but you're his favorite pick for jobs like that, aren't you?"

Neil shook his head. "Hardwick hasn't, and he won't."

"Why not?" said Willie, wanting another drink but finding his glass empty. He thought about standing to get another but his head was spinning. "We're bloody intelligence officers of the British Secret Service. What's the good in that if we can't use it when it counts?"

"We can't go for a Head of State, Willie," said Neil firmly, polishing off his scotch. There seemed to be an unfamiliar coldness in Neil. Then again, perhaps it had always been there and Willie merely unaware of it until now. "Not without permission. You know that."

Willie shut his eyes and swore. "So Phạm An Bào in Vietnam gets the chop for political reasons but Lutara is left still grinning on his bloody throne, free to kill another day." The stifled anger flared abruptly and unexpectedly in Willie's stomach, mixing with the many glasses of alcohol uneasily so that he felt ill.

"You're still young, Willie," said Neil heavily. "Not two years in the Section. You're just not used to the violence yet."

"Who says I ever have to get bloody used to it?" Willie demanded, sounding hysterical even to his own ears. "Although I don't suppose I should ask you, seeing as you've just come home from killing a man. Haven't got any qualms about that, I noticed."

Neil addressed him icily from behind raised eyebrows: "You're drunk, Willie."

Yes, Willie was bloody drunk. And he wanted to get a good deal drunker before the night was up. He wished Neil would leave. The game had apparently gone ill for Arsenal and the crowd was beginning to get a bit rowdy. Willie wondered if a scuffle was going to break out – he could use a good fight. Pick one: a first-class knock about or a sound thrashing, he wasn't particular about who came out on top. _Bloody vultures, the lot of us_ , Roach had said.

Willie realized he had his head in his hands, elbows braced on the table. He shut his eyes and tried not to remember the grisly pictures Lutara had sent to the embassy. The sound of the crowd behind him had reached an almost unbearable pitch, pounding in Willie's head until he couldn't think anymore.

Across the table Neil sighed heavily. He pushed himself back to his feet, leaving his glass of scotch half-empty on the table.

"Come on, Willie. Let me drive you home."

* * *

End

* * *

Historical background:

"A Proper Function of Government" only ever made reference to an "East African country" as President Lutara's homeland and, as President Lutara is a fictional character, I've extended the fiction by taking bits and pieces of history of from Uganda, Ethiopia, and Somalia. Lutara's character primarily mirrored Ugandan president Idi Amin, the political standing of the country closely imitated both that of Ethiopia and Somalia.

The role of Britain in the Vietnam War was a small one, and took a mostly behind the scenes position. In lieu of supplying the United States with ground troops, Britain supported the special relationship by collecting intelligence from their Hanoi and Hong Kong stations, mostly intercepted North Vietnamese intelligence reports, surveillance, communications monitoring, and targeting bomb strike locations. This was in concordance with the intelligence alliance known as Five Eyes, which included Britain, the United States, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand. Britain's involvement in the intelligence operations were usually intentionally misrepresented as the work of the Australians.

US espionage in the Vietnam War took the form of the Phoenix Program, which was a series of CIA operations designed to wipe out any hint of communism in South Vietnam by means of neutralizing anyone suspected of having communist ties. The Phoenix operations were on the receiving end of much controversy and negative publicity because of the CIA's use of assassination, terrorism, and torture. Eventually the program was shut down in 1972 but was alleged to have evolved into a similar program codenamed F-6.


End file.
